The Switch
by goeties
Summary: The summer time crawls at a snail pace and Harry decides to go and do a stupid thing. Like running away as fast as he can. Parentlock (includes crossdressing, case, mentions of mental health, destructive babies and sass)(cross-posted on AO3)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not even that awful deerstalker.

Harry didn't know exactly what made him consider such madness.

Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Maybe it was combination of fate and circumstances mixed with his poor judgment. Or maybe it was a natural consequence of wheels of time preparing for another turn. It was also possible that he projected all of the above on his simple need to finely do something selfish for himself.

If saving a life can be considered selfish.

He had read once, that solitary confinement was considered a war crime because it had long reaching consequences on both physical and psychological health. He started to believe that they were onto something.

Ever since he came back from Hogwarts, he felt like there was a pressure closing on him from all sides, making his already cluttered room feel even smaller. It was clogging his lungs and clinging to his skin like a stale sweat, resulting in endless twitchiness that got him a stinky eye and smug whisper of "withdrawal" that his Aunt sold to their neighbours. The silence stretched for hours till he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. Light streaming through the window remained too bright for his straining eyes and going outside started to become a scary thought.

There was also a question of the constant booming noise that came from his cousin's room on the late evenings, and if it could be put under 'music torture' category. What penetrated the walls was drumming echo accompanied by some agonized screeching and sounds of nails on a blackboard. The blinding headaches that fallowed seems to confirm it.

It was awareness that came after three days of barely moving out of bed outside of doing the chores, woken up by nightmares in those moments when he managed to close his eyes, plagued by insomnia, tired without even doing anything strenuous and with mouth so dry that swallowing hurt like he swallowed nails, that if he does not leave anytime soon…anywhere, really, he will only get worse.

He needed out.

Not just outside, watched over like a dog, and if the people that sat outside his house and under his windows thought they were being discreet, they were delusional.

He needed to walk away from this toxic atmosphere, sickly peach walls and his Uncle's twitching eye. (It was twitching more often recently and that didn't mean anything good in Harry's experience.)

Or thoughts that intruded on his mind will get out and be given life.

It was already bad enough that he was ready to climb walls years ago, but after Cedric…

It barely made him sad anymore. No, now he was angry, furious even and it scared the bejeezus out of him. Being constantly torn between impotent rage hidden quietly under thin veneer of control and crippling apathy, realizing that he hadn't had a moment of simple joy in weeks that wasn't accompanied with crushing desolate feeling in his chest…

He felt as if something was eating him alive.

Maybe that's why one day he sat down at his rickety desk, found one roll-on notebook that was barely filled with some scribbles, broken pencil he sharpened with a pocket knife and on the top of the page he wrote 'Shopping List'.

He needed some food, not a lot and nothing that would be missed, finding that won't be hard since it was not a new practice. Dry toasts would keep better then bread. A handful of cornflakes and few spoons of raisins and cranberry. Nuts. Apples from the garden under #10. Jar of peach jam from the basement. Carrots. Cup from the fast food near Kings Cross for free soda refills.

And then, there were other essentials. A sewing needle and threads, glue gun from garage. Tape, bandage, scissors. Whole bag of starch and four balloons. Fishing line, too.

And, as he was feeling somewhat spiteful, (and maybe a little bit like a man on a mission - James Bond style) he put a cracked pocket mirror with rose wood casing next to the page and then rewrote everything… in a code. A simple one...maybe too simple. He needed some research.

Oh, Hermione would be proud.

The list was steadily growing longer as the afternoon passed, sitting innocently in the nondescript notebook, for now, the only mark of the plan cooking in Harry's head.

Harry had more then enough experience with scavenger hunts, having spent most of his life under radar on quiet, socked feet, nicking bread by taking one or two pieces from different places and then pushing the pieces together to seal the gaps. Filling juiceboxes with tap water. Stealing away at night through the window in the basement and coming back with pillowcase full of less then legally acquired goods, hiding most of them in garage behind brand new, never used, bike. Plastic bottles full of water from garden hose that dented slightly his already lumpy mattress. Always prepared for a time he would be sealed away in his cupboard for some imaginary slight, smuggling bits and pieces by hiding in plain sight.

It was endlessly stupid of him to not expect trouble, when he came back from Hogwarts for the first time, hiding only few sweets in the pockets sewed on the inside of his too big trousers. Should have know better, that while he has changed and was growing into his own, Dursley's stayed their own cheerful selves, ready to rip into his jubilant mood.

He wondered briefly how well would his friends survive in this suburban hell.

Two days at most for Ron, who was a spoiled brat, even if he didn't quite realized that yet. He would come back to his home, on foot, if needs be, half starved and kissing his mother's feet.

It always somewhat irked him, the way that his friend took his family for granted. The food on his plate. Warm bed. Harry spend his life fighting for every scrap and doing with less, he knew exactly how it is to be overlooked and always the last. Ron didn't know how lucky bastard he was, but as much as it irritated him, Harry would never wish for him to be depraved of those things.

More credit should be given to Hermione. She would probably last a whole week with increasing complains, before she would start to question the validity of her staying put in place that was hazardous to her health and then informing everyone of her plight. Of course, she would be promptly ignored.

Harry knew how things worked.

He spend fourteen years of his life in rags, munching on shamrock when his stomach was glued to his back. Sucking on icicles, not even entertaining a thought of a warm tea, when winter made him doubt about his continued survival. Glasses probably hurt his sight even more, even when they helped to see anything more then blob shapes. Trainers were always too big, filled with paper and feet with two pairs of thick socks on, taped and colored with markers to cover the stains. Nearly everything he owned was mismatched and unwanted by others, usually too big or broken.

It all screamed child abuse.

Adults were blind. And deaf, too, putting everything into 'kids those days' category. Or maybe Harry was just too good at lying. He would rather not let people know that most of the time he was caught at it, it was because he didn't want them to dug deeper.

It didn't matter now. All that mattered was digging up all old habits and leaving as fast as he can without jeopardizing himself.

That led him to write a letter.

The loopy handwriting was hard to copy, it took just over an hour to even get a hang of a strangely embellished 'j' and sloppy 'h' that had more then passing resemblance to 'n'. Maybe it was futile to try so hard, it's not like people that the final product was meant for would go on their way to check if the message is genuine. You have to both care and have IQ higher then room temperature for that, and Dursley's were not the brightest Lumos in the room. But then, Harry didn't want them to entertain even one thought about possible deception. This was the first plan conceived since he was ten that couldn't be summed up by 'everyone on one, two, three', it needed to work.

In the end, three different copies were made, left with suitably open spaces to fill with dates and hours once he figures out how much time would be needed for all preparations to be done with.

It would be easy to nick Dudley's phone. Maybe not that easy to operate with it, it was some time since he held one and smartphones were so needlessly complicated, but his lump of a cousin had a stupid habit of leaving that thing in the strangest of places, completely uncaring of how expensive it was.

He would also hesitate to inform his father if said phone would suddenly went missing, since they had some sort of a deal (as it was fourth phone in less then two years) that if he looses or break this one, the next would arrive on Christmas. With thirty pound limit. Dudley was suitably cowed by this threat. Far more then the risk of heart attack and aneurysm from his unhealthy eating habits.

Harry's cousin came back from school looking like a beach ball.

It wouldn't be a problem per se, there were plenty of people in the world that would never be called skinny, but were healthy and rocked the boat in sports and modeling and whenever they damn pleased. They lived their lives happily, not even considering cutting themselves in pieces to match some unreachable standard.

And, in Harry's personal experience, eating more hurt less then not eating at all. Which is why he never understood why people would willingly starve themselves.

But problem was, Big D was no longer just big, and school physician stated firmly that if he won't start eat differently, he could say goodbye to boxing, because nobody in their right mind would let him out in the ring with a possibility, that he would be knocked out by his own failing heart.

It was a big downside for Dudley. But it was also a good thing for Harry. For the last two weeks, on Monday and Thursday like a clockwork, the Dursley family left home and headed out for the doctors, dietitians, and some sort of every day rehabilitation program. Which probably translated as gym, because every time they came back, Dudley looked like a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on a pavement.

And Harry, of course, was left alone, locked up in his room like a hairy princess in dreary tower. If the dragon keeping him from his freedom actually had razor sharp teeth, claws and atrocious morning breath, it would have rated only as minor inconvenience. Naturally, getting out was no longer a problem, his lock-picks and a knife from Sirius worked, well, like a charm.

All that meant, that most things he needed could be gathered as soon as tomorrow.

He looked at the letters, list, and the rest of his claustrophobic room and sighed. There was still so much to do. But for that to work he needed to forget how it is to be a wizard Harry Potter and remember the person he was before he choose Gryffindor over Slytherin.

As for the wizards… Harry spend last four years observing them in their natural habitat the same way they paid attention to him.

He found a curious thing, something that even the most hardcore muggle lovers shared with blood purists - a conviction of superiority of magical world over muggle. It was affliction that even few muggleborn students started to share. Harry loved magic and he had very few reasons to feel the same about all the non magical people he knew, but he would be first to point out that different doesn't mean better. Or worse. It just means different.

But because of this groundless belief, he would remain free for far longer, trapping his unaware stalkers with the power as invisible as shy Demiguise. The power of perception.

He was going muggle.

The days came and went and Harry took careful notion of all the new additions hidden all around his room.

Notebook filled with nonsensical jumble, rows of numbers and doodles. Only about half of it was useful.

He took perverse joy in the fact, that whoever would feel like deciphering his carefully arranged clusterfuck, would have to go through three recipes for cupcakes, six pages long monologue about how much president of United States reminded him of Voldemort - only more orange and less polite, whole page of anagrams of Tom Riddle's and his own names (his personal favorite was Mild Doormat Lover, sue him), notes on DADA summer homework, increasingly more ridiculous ways to kill someone (that will give them a pause) and one fat, big, gargantuan, half a page large question with inadvisable amount of exclamation marks : 'If Voldiebear used my blood to resurrect his age old pasty ass, and it is my blood that adds to 'protections ' around this shithole, then why the ever loving fuck I am still here?'

It was a good question. One that occurred him when he prickled his finger (again) with the tip of a sewing needle.

The half an hour freakout that fallowed would have caused Hermione to rip her hair out in the sheer stress level, but Harry, the soul of discretion and tact clenched his teeth, marched around the house making sure it was empty and then screamed in the bathroom for a while, afterwards cheerfully murdering his pillow with Dudley's Smelting stick.

He didn't feel better exactly, but calm enough to not just pack his things and then do something as stupid as taking his Firebolt and invisibility cloak and throwing himself out of the window this very moment. He had a feeling that his bid for freedom in that case would last less time then it does take for Ron to decimate chicken leg and trouble will only multiple. Murphy would have a ball.

An idle mind is the devil's playground and whatnot. Sitting around certainly doesn't help with anxious feeling that nestled itself in his chest not a long time ago, and liked to make his heart flutter and breath speed up at seemingly random times. Staying in one place is not good for the soul, especially where safety is dubious at most.

So, firmly telling himself to calm his tits, prepare and stop procrastinating, he got busy once again. (Not that it stopped him from fretting.)

In the end he was ready far sooner then he thought he would be. Picking out the forged letter he took a deep breath and with a taste of impending freedom on his tongue, eagle feather traveled across the parchment. Done.

He decided, that while Vernon would probably be overjoyed at his leaving, it was far safer to approach only his darling aunt and let her deal with her lump of a husband.

"Hedwig?" Two large yellow eyes blinked open, white wings moved slightly, settling along the back. Harry moved his hand through the soft plumage. "Hello love, do something for me? It's a bit complicated so listen closely. Those three are for Ron, Hermione and Ginny. This for anybody who is with them. But this, this is special." Harry raised very thin scroll circled with light blue ribbon preferred by Ginny. Owl eyed it curiously, fallowing his hand.

"You will fly away with all of them, leave this one somewhere close but safe, deliver the rest and come back. Then, I will give you a note, small enough that you will hide it in your talons and you will drop it off in a trash somewhere, and bring back the one with a ribbon."

"Hoot?"

"Yes, I know it's convoluted, but they sit under the window and I think they monitor how many times you come and go, so feel free to come with dinner, too. And Petunia will be here waiting for that," Harry tapped the scroll, "but she can't know I wrote it."

"Hoot?"

"Quite sure."

"Hoot."

"I know that, I am talking to you. Not exactly paragon of sanity."

Hedwig nipped at his fingers, letting him tie the letters to her legs.

"You sure you can do it?"

"Hoot." She ruffled her feathers looking quite insulted by his insinuations. He nuzzled lightly the top of her soft head, cajoling her to climb on his forearm.

"You are the best girl."

And if the look she send him before she spread her wings didn't say 'and don't you forget it' ,he was going to eat his hat.

Well, that's it.

He suddenly felt more then little grateful to Hagrid. For more then one thing, but his wonderful owl was topping on that list.

The next move was so sudden, that anybody watching would be convinced, that Harry was ducking out of the way, but in fact, he landed on his knees close to the bookcase quite willingly.

All the books there were cracked at least once but only by one occupant of Privet Drive 4. Harry always had a special talent for sneaking about, that's why he knew that among all those volumes were two that someone like Hagrid might like. He didn't have any literature about magical animals, but muggle world was not devoid of dangerous creatures. That's why he sighed in relief when he found what he was looking for. He learned to read using those two, his half-giant friend will probably appreciate the sentiment. 'Animal Planet Wild Animals. Animal Bites' was his favorite child book for a long time and, the other, far more complicated, 'Wild Animals of Britain and Europe'. Dark brown doe looked at him from the picture on hardcover. Now he knew why he always liked deers so much.

Harry stood up, rummaging through the piles of old newspapers and then he gently put the books on an open page, creating crude and bit lumpy package. Well, you couldn't be talented at everything.

And because he had no intention of ever coming back and books in Dursley household were considered a waste, he decided to get wild.

After all, he still had a pile of convenient paper and more then enough tape for that.

Hedwig came back not even an hour later, bearing letters from his friends. Along with deliciously smelling piece of treacle tart and chicken sandwich.

Thank Merlin for Molly Weasley.

Even knowing that the letters contained nothing but platitudes and general small talk, Harry was glad that he wasn't just forgotten and even when they couldn't tell him anything, he was still missed. It fed that small part of him that needed to be assured every now and then that he was not abandoned.

Was he mad? Yes. Maybe. There was that voice in his head who wanted to scream at them and ask why they would treat him like a Faberge egg. He was not a fragile flower petal nor a delicate glass figurine. He would not break.

Another part was just tired. Too tired to always fight for every bit of information this way. Like he had to tear the answer from the cold dead fingers of some ancient king after going for year long quest. Would it be so hard to just say things? 'Hello, can't tell you everything over the letter, but here is my phone number, call me. And see you soon.' 'Hi, I gave this message to people who guard you, it's like super secure post office just under your window, here is everything you need to know. Hope that clears it up for you.'

No, Harry wasn't sore about that. At all.

Maybe magic and common sense just don't mix well.

Harry knew, that most people think he likes to tap danger on the back until it looks him in the eyes, but he was nowhere near as stupid as that. He thrives under duress, where it breaks many others, but that didn't mean that he would put down his neck under cutting spell just for shit and giggles. And that meant, that coming downstairs and facing the woman, who he fantasized about sending somewhere far away packed in a box with holes and ten pounds of glitter, required tactics. Underhanded, dirty, completely under the belt tactics.

 _First_ , he waited.

He knew, that the best time to approach his dear Aunt, was the time just after the end of Desperate Housewives summer re-runs. She was usually more relaxed after watching so much spite and drama. Harry was pretty sure that would he look up 'Schadenfreude' in dictionary it would have Dursley's phone number.

 _Secondly_ , he made tea.

Inconspicuously.

Added just that little bit too much water when filling the kettle. Left the teabox next to his elbow. Filled the sugarbowl. Washed the lone plate that lay on the counter.

And then, he attacked.

"Do you want some tea, Aunt Petunia?"

And... _strike one_.

It was the combination of free tea and Harry doing manual labor that usually hit the spot. Dursley's were petty people, but nobody said that handling them needed to be complicated affair. It's only, that any manipulation's done, needed to be spaced and repeated sparsely, as even the dumbest animal could feel that it was led to a slaughter when not handled carefully.

He watched her take the first sip. Then poured the rest of the water from the kettle out. Wiped the counter to get rid of sugar and circles left by cups. Hanged the towel. His prey was placid and unsuspecting.

 _Next_.

He sighed into his cup. Loudly.

"What?!" And there is nothing, that could catch her attention more, then Harry being miserable. "Spill it boy."

 _Hook_.

"I got a letter from... them. I will be leaving on Monday."

Here it is, the suspicious frown climbing on her forehead. Every time she did that, Harry had before his eyes Grinch and his fluffy green eyebrows.

"You were supposed to stay for a month, that man said so, otherwise we wouldn't be safe once they take you."

"He explained it too, but he also told me that I have to be gone sooner, because they don't have people to babysit me and that if I try to move later, everybody will know." Harry had done everything in his power to sound petulant. Honestly, he didn't need to try all that hard, but Petunia's expression cleared somewhat, still some suspicion lingered. _Now, for the main event_."I can get you the letter, if you want?"

"Bring it."

 _Line._

So there he was, breathing deeply, looking miserable on the prospect of traveling alone, without escort or so called 'special treatment', watching his aunt holding the parchment like its existence personally offended her. But the contents must have been very pleasing, indeed.

"Write to your friends."

"Now?"

"No, next year! Of course now you idiot boy! Here!" She slapped a piece of paper and ballpen on the table before him, looking over his shoulder. "Where is that damned owl of yours?"

Harry tried very hard not to show satisfaction at her shriek, when Hedwig suddenly appeared like a Swooping Death, taking the letter in her claw and zipping out of the kitchen and into the morning light outside. They sat in the tense silence, slurping their cooling tea, waiting for the message that would change both of their lives forever. Minutes slugged by till a loud bark made both of them jump. For just a second Aunt Petunia's face reminded Harry of Narcissa Malfoy with how much her nose scrunched in distaste, face going a little bit more green at the large rodent hanging from Hedwig's beak. Small note tied with blue ribbon landed on the table. Harry waited for one nerve wracking second while the letter was unrolled.

"You will be gone by the time we are home."

 _And sinker_.

Harry nodded at this simple statement, pursing his lips and reaching his hand for letters and being gleefully denied.

"I need to show it to Vernon. Go upstairs and pack."

Harry turned, Hedwig comforting weight on his shoulder, trudging upstairs with heavy gait, closed the door behind himself with soft click and... smiled.

 _Sharp._

Full of teeth.

Now, to the other things.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still don't own a thing.

The doorknob clicked softly, cold bluish light slipping through the creek run on the floor and stopped, casting a eerie shadows on the walls. The room was empty. Every spare inch was covered with thin layer of dust that danced restlessly around when they shuffled in.

In the central part of the desk stood a handmade card. Plain white card-stock with a few words scribbled in the middle in Harry's familiar handwriting, Remus leaned to read them.

 ** _To my stalkers._**

"Oh"

"So he knew we were there." Growled Moody after limping toward Lupin, who now opened the card. Tonks abandoned poking at the rickety lamp standing on the cluttered DIY nightstand to stand beside him. Painted inside the card was a cake with a large ' _Congrats_ ' stretching over the orange top layer. Candles were replaced with slips of paper, easily removable and colored like candy canes, their ends stuck out at the bottom. With a feeling of dread he pulled them down, exposing the text hidden behind. Then read the message out loud.

"'You've found I am gone! Congrats! Now look up.' What?"

It was Tonks who found it. Next to the window, pinned to the wall by what looked like a piece of play-dough and a pin was calendar. Made by hand, with little care for looks, half hidden by the picture of Hedwig. Few numbers were crossed over, all of them made at the very beginning of summer. Two dates were marked red, the first of September and the …

Remus gaped at the circled number with disbelieving eyes and then, very slowly, refocused on the page he was still holding, like it was a dangerous animal about to bit his hand off. He looked at the back. The words seemed to mock him.

 _Constant Vigilance', my ass._  
 _The notebook on your right is for you. The letters are not. I will ask you to redistribute them once you find the recipients, but considering how little privacy means to you, I will not be surprised to find you ignored my wishes, however simple they may be._

"Ouch, harsh." Remus looked disbelievingly at exceedingly unconcerned Tonks, who was peering at the contents. Her shoulder brushing his while she stood on her tip toes, like she forgot how to morph, leaning closer, completely ignoring any social cues about comfort zones. He was grateful, that muted wand light had that fortunate upside of not exposing blush creeping on his face.

"We were guarding empty house for over a month, looks like." Moody was already reading the letter, snorting few times. "He certainly doesn't mince his words. Quite refreshing."

"He is missing, for god's sake! Give me that." Remus shook his head, trying to stop thinking about rather sharp tang of cinnamon, that came from direction of the woman standing next to him, and all but ripped the paper from auror's hand, ignoring the one armed shrug.

 _To my dear stalkers,_  
 _Word of caution to you, if you don't want a person you spy on to know, that they are spied on, you might consider :_

 _Not reading on the duty. Seriously, the sound carries, especially in the evenings, sometimes you can hear trains even if train tracks are few miles away._

 _Wear less descriptive shoes. Trainers, purple, size six, six and half?. You tripped over something and your cloak slipped. It was visible for nearly fifteen minutes._

 _And the other, smaller, looked like that._

Underneath was a strangely detailed shoeprint with visible elongated triangle upper shape and small square heel.

Hestia's new ankle booties. Tonks was rather jealous of them, but she couldn't really spare one third of her income for high heel shoes, that won't be able to stand some heavy workout. Or rain. Or gravel. It was a sensible thing to do. Yeah.

 _You left one full print after stepping on the muddy ground near the garden hose and they are quite distinctive here._

 _One of you should quit drinking the oldest and most fermented apple juice with such passion. And cut on smoking cheep snuff._

 _Is Mrs Figg onto this farce? Now that I think of it, her house is full of Kneazels. Didn't recognized them at first, Crookshanks is pretty…specific._

 _Now that I had my fun ar your expanse, you might want to know why I decided to leave._

 _In simplest terms 'Stupid times call for stupid measures'._

 _The people you let take such a good care of me decided to kill me. It could have been avoided, of course, if one of you was visible and they knew you were watching over me, but thank fuck you didn't bother to do that._

 _Let me enlighten you to the nature of the Dursley's family, because I refuse to believe that you'd be so coldhearted and uncaring, if you knew what was going on behind this white painted fence. Those people are obsessed with the concept of normal and in all they do, they strive for the average. You have seen this house, this street, I think you might have a good idea what pass as normal here._

 _And then, there is me. A foreign looking person who is not exactly a conformist, happen to be a liberal, can't quite stand beige and have the unfortunate privilege of being a wizard and living in magic hating household._

 _I am everything Vernon Dursley hates._

 _I am also not an absolute idiot, polite when someone doesn't rain fiery shit on my head, and, against best efforts, not the worst looking guy, if you believe Hermione. (I do, that girl is blunt like a hammer and I wouldn't have it any other way)._

 _And that makes Petunia Dursley more angry then anything else in the world._

 _She is a jealous and spiteful creature and no matter how much she loves her son, she wishes that he would be more like me. Because I remind her of my mum, who she could not help but compare herself to and fall short._

 _You do the math._

 _In this house my every virtue is a mark against me, so it will now not come as surprise to you, that this lovely family had practiced neglect and abuse on me like it was Olympic sport._

 _Quite frankly, I wouldn't let them take care of tree legged hamster, with how much parental instincts and kindness they share between each other._

 _Of course, you might not believe me, nobody before did, after all._

 _Take a look at the locks on the door. Gauges on the side of the window are from the bars, you might want to ask the twins and Ron about them. If not for them I wouldn't be there to moan and bitch about my personal prison shared with feathery inmate. Dudley's room is next to this one. Tell me what kind of parents would do that to their own child. But what might convince you, is the cupboard under the stairs. You walked by it on your way up. There is still a cot and few pictures in there, makes for a quite a story._

 _I left you a message inside. Please take my things wherever are you going?_

 _I will not come back to this house, and that's a promise. I was already told in few flat English words, that should I do, my body will be found in a ditch, and do I believe it? Coming from a man who spend some time in prison for nearly clobbering someone to death, was only let out from lack of evidence and keeps the pipe he'd done it with in garage under worktable?_

 _Yes. Yes I do._

 _So, a word of warning. If you'll make me come back to this hellhole, to be starved and beaten and used for free labor and closed under lock and key with bucket and glass of stale water, somebody will go out through front door feet first._

 _And I will do everything in my power for it to not to be me. If Vernon Dursley raises a hand against me ever again I will kill that man._

 _And if you think I am bluffing, I would say ask Dumbledore, but for all his virtuous, he likes sugarcoating everything, so ask my friends, since I told them nearly whole story of how exactly Quirrell died. Except how it is to wrap your burning hands around someones neck and feel them stop breathing, even when they are clawing at your face. Because it's ugly and I don't want Hermione or Ron or twins or anybody I love to ever know that. Never, if I can help it._

 _I worry about them, so take good care of them for me, alright? Help them prepare instead of patting them on the head, because when shit will hit the fan they will be like sitting ducks. And find somebody to talk with Ginny, she sounds sad in her letters._

 _Just…make sure that they won't one day wake up as adults expected to fight and to cope, when no one taught them how._

 _That turned more heavy then I expected._

 _For now, I'm biding you adieu and there's sweet bugger all you can do about it._

 _See you in September._

 _Love and curses,_

 _The boy who takes vacation from all the drama._

 _PS. How is Babymort?_

 _PPS. Happy decoding._

"Think it's true?" Asked Tonks, her voice strangely hoarse, and when Remus looked at her, she was brushing off her tears with blue jacket sleeve. It was then, he realized that his own cheeks were strangely wet. He cleared his throat.

"What part?"

"All of it. Any if it. Does it matter? Even if the fraction is truth… "She didn't need to continue. The implications were clear enough.

"It's true. At least some of it." When they still stood over unstable desk, leaning on it perhaps to heavily, Moody was already moving through the room, opening wardrobe and two drawers and then he pulled something from under the bed accompanied with a sound of ripping duct tape. A trash bag. "I had a bunch of cases of child abuse in my career." His grizzled expression turned even more foul. It took a moment for them to decipher it as concern. "There is rotting bits of food hidden in pillowcase, under that floorboard, that's where the smell is coming from. Lock-pick. All things that he likes or needed over the years are hidden among the trash in case someone would like to destroy it."

He pulled out Gryffindor banner from under old comics pile that looked untouched, dust on the top was thick and undisturbed. Dream-catcher with small greenish-blue stones got fished out from behind the bedside table, where it was hanging on a pin wedged inside the wood. Funny shaped glass that turned out to be Sneakoscope, was previously sitting in a box on highest wardrobe shelf that proudly proclaimed 'Furby'.

"He is really gone." Remus was holding Harry's most praised possession, photo album, that was missing few shots, gently pried away and probably carried close wherever he was. But for him to leave it...

"Yes he is."

"How can you say that so calmly?!" Remus's eyes flashed with a yellow tinge when he rounded on Moody. Not like the Auror looked impressed at all, snorting under his nose about choleric mamabear werewolves, before just shaking his head and looking at Lupin through the corner of his natural eye.

"Listen, Lupin, the lad run off, and I would be damned, but that might have been the best decision he made with information he had, no sense in moaning about it." Remus gasped uncomprehending, paused for a moment before he blew.

"He is fourteen!"

Tonks in a gesture of self preservation from continued argument she had no need or want joining, opened the door and with a few Silencio thrown around she took a peak at the room next to Harry's. It was… To call it a mess would be admitting that Tonks' own achievement in this departament was meager at best. And she was a person who was considering throwing away the fridge instead of cleaning it. Circe, how can anybody live in that kind of pigsty? The walls were nearly invisible, every inch of space was taken, sometimes or maybe most of the times, growing vertically. PC and laptop and two tablets on top of some magazines, TV and one of those game stations, CD's that took one whole wall. She could see at lest eight plates, but not even two square inches of the floor...nor the bed for the matter, covered in so many tent-sized clothes that they made a nest. It smelled like a stale sweat and cheese and things unnamed. No wonder that they didn't feel food getting spoiled in Harry's austere little room, with this just next door. She looked at the teenager who was gleefully killing everything in sight on his computer, music wailing so loud that he would not notice a bomb going close. She could see what Harry was getting at.

Neglect can go both ways.

Tonks brushed her red hair back, dissolving her silence spell and rolling her eyes when she saw them still arguing.

"Kids run away from home every day, not saying that's alright, but better on the streets then dead. He sends out the message every three day, writes his friends regularly so he must be safe and sound. And he was smart enough to pull wool on our eyes for whole month, would do so for longer if we didn't come here. Kid had us all fooled, and he obviously can take care of himself, the last thing we need is for the other side to catch hint that he is out there."

It was hard to argue with that. Harry kept in contact, his 'I am fine' turned into short messages, no longer with that angry increasingly less readable scrawl. Maybe it should have clue them in a bit sooner.

"I want to see the cupboard." Announced suddenly Tonks, her hands curled into fists and arms crossed. Her hair was a curious mix of vivid red and muted, mousy brown, flicking and changing as emotions warred in her chest. "It's not that I don't believe him, I do…I just...

"Would rather find proof that he was exaggerating." Her mouth was pulled into unhappy line, but she nodded. "If you stay an Auror, you will deal with many things like that. Kids being beaten, sometimes killed by accident, murdered. From newborn to teenagers to adults. If you want to do your job well, you can't cling to hope of human good nature, when evidence proves otherwise."

Remus glared furiously at him, turning to Tonks to offer few kinder words in the face of her obvious distress, and blinked in shock to find only squared shoulders and violet eyes gleaming with determination. Before he got to the point, she was already out of the door, head held high, wand in hand and quiet feet.

He turned to Moody.

"What was that supposed to mean?"

"Don't coddle her, Lupin! She is a badger and that means teeth and claws and conviction. She isn't some weak minded pushover that you need to hold by hand all the time, so stop doing that."

"I don't do that!"Protested the man, twirling around in agitated circle. "I just don't get it why you would needlessly upset her, isn't the situation bad enough?"

"She has job to do, no, shut your yap, Lupin." He added sharply when he saw Remus put his hand up to argue his point. "You care for a woman who will go head to head with the worst scum scrubbed from the proverbial shoe bottom of this world, job that doesn't end after you come home. It stays with you, right here." Moody tapped the side of his head, right next the swirling eye with his finger, driving the point home. "So you either respect her and stand by her side or not at all and be left behind. You can be gentleman all you like, but stand in her way and she will raze you."

"Tonks is a very sweet girl…"

"That's very kind of you to say" Remus turned, his face already hot to see her smiling lightly, even when her eyes were rimmed red. He felt his heart clenching.

Bigger part of him was already whispering 'nope, don't go there' but the other unapologetically was singing 'oops, too late for that. You are in loooove fluffy butt'. It sounded irritatingly alike Sirius. He was doomed. But Moody was right, damn him, and he shuddered internally since he was now taking romantic advice from a man who lost his left buttock and without irony called himself Mad-eye.

Merlin help him.

 _Now or never._

"Are you going to stand there like gorgona got to you or are you finely going to help me here ?"

 _Never then._

Moody already had a ton of little knick-knacks spread all over the narrow, dusty bed after he scurried the room, plucking them from the weirdest places. And then, he took out a bag out of the many pockets of his trench coat and carefully started packing them.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"What does it looks like? You go for the desk, take the papers and that notebook, anything that might look important, too. " He ordered without turning, his electric blue eye sweeping the corners, trying to find out if he missed something. Two pairs of surprised eyes were digging into his back. "What? The lad is not going back here, he took only what he needed the most. Doesn't mean he won't be happy to have those back."

"And next year?" Asked Tonks quietly, her fingers playing with the strangely delicate bracelet made of pinkish and orange seashells and wondering where it came from, so beautiful and out of place among all those broken things.

"Well, we will just have to make sure that he doesn't return, don't we?" Remus put his hand on her shoulder, his kind, tired face hovered close, filling with quiet determination.

She smiled weakly.

A hint of solution was better then none.

She thought of the small dark cupboard. Of tiny handprint in the farthest corner, barely visible in the muted overhead light. Row of overthrown cheap plastic soldiers, all of them chipped or broken. A cot, stood up and pushed to make a place for Harry's trunk. Tiny, dirty, overused. There was a bleach stain on the floor, covered in dust. How long was it there? The cupboard was small in every direction. It had a lock far too complicated for a place you should keep your hoover and Mr Muscle in.

She thought of the small boy who wrote 'Harry's Room' with something sharp in the corner, place that nobody would see unless they were looking for it. Pictures. Flying motorcycle, trees, a demented looking bunny, three people, adults and a child standing in the middle of green. Three others like the last one. And one with a woman only. All of them swallowed by green. For a moment she thought it was grass. And then she realized that it wasn't grass at all, but a very familiar spell. Oh God.

She thought of the wizarding trunk that now stood close to the front door and how a person this young could and did eschew most of his earthly possessions not impulsively, but with full knowledge of what he was leaving behind.

The good, the bad and the ugly.

There was a note burning a hole in her pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I wish I owned things beside anxiety and poor health, but alas.

The return to Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix turned out to be far less triumphant and coming later then anybody expected. But still, nobody in the house slept, waiting and worrying, not without a cause.

"Nymphadora, Remus, finely. Where have you been?

Mrs Weasley was already halfway through dreary corridor when she stopped suddenly at the sound of closing door and seeing only three people standing, where there should be four. The thumping sounds of descending feet shook her out of the creeping numbness, that took over at the unwelcome sight.

Ron jumped off the last step, socked feet sliding a bit on the polished wood floor and pushed through the small crowd, but it was Hermione, fast on his heels who asked.

"Harry? Where is he?"

Mad-eye limped forward, taking out the bag from his coat and then enlarged it, passing it to Hermione.

"Take it upstairs, girlie. You troublemakers take the trunk." He mentioned toward twins, who stood far too still, frowning, no sight of good humor on their youthful faces.

"No! Nobody will go anywhere till you tell us where is Harry!" Screamed Ron standing tall and proud and scared in the dark corridor, dressed up in his maroon pj's with indian pattern that ended a whole inch above his ankle. Hermione's hand snuck closer, grasping the fried edge of his sleeve, searching for comfort, mouth pressed tightly to stop the sob, that was already threatening to get out.

"He is gone." Whispered Lupin in defeated tone, voice carrying, his eyes trailing on the dark woodwork at his feet.

"Stop it, you overdramatic shit!" Growled Moody, tired of the man's attitude, making people jump in place at his sudden exclamation." To answer your question, youngling, we have no idea where he is. Your friend packed up essentials and run off."

It was like a dam has burst, filling the house with angry noise, changing quick into the buzz of hornet's nest. For so few people, they surely knew how to make a lot of noise. Sirius's voice carried over the others, filled with fear, breaking halfway.

"Then what are we waiting for, he must not be gone for long. We need to search every place he knows off, he wouldn't know how to get here."

"SCUM! LIARS! TRAITORS! MUDBLOODS IN ANCESTRAL HOUSE OF BLACK! I SHOULD HAVE CURSE YOU THE MOMENT YOU LEFT MY LOINS. SHAME! SHAME AND DISHONOR!"

It took some time to wrestle the curtains over vocabulary deficient portrait of the thankfully late Waldburga Black, time the others took to relocate to the kitchen, waiting in tense silence for the screams to stop. Molly, puttered around preparing tea that no one asked for, blinking out the tears while little cups crinkled in her hands. Sirius came in a moment later, slung himself onto nearby chair and put his hands in shaggy mane, barely acknowledging the steaming cup put under his nose. He was breathing hard and shallow through his nose, swallowing every few seconds, blinking off the sting in his eyes.

"We have to call the Order. " Arthur gently pried the kettle from his wife's hand, pulling her closer and looking at their diminished numbers.

"Oh yes, call the Order, but not before you tell us what you know".

"Ginny! You will let us handle it. Besides, what are you doing awake, up to your rooms."

"That's so not happening." Ron glared at his mother defiantly, jaw clenched and fingers white, clutching on the table's edge. Twins didn't even blink, crossing arms in eerie unisono. Ginny was gritting her teeth, looking mutinous, deliberately slurping her tea like she was trying to say 'uh, uh, comfy here, will stay '. Only Hermione tried to avoid Mrs. Weasley gaze, but there was no question that she wouldn't move an inch for all the gold in Gringotts. "Harry is my…our best friend. We will not leave until we know what happened to him."

"Please, just tell us. Is he hurt? Did he left something?"

"As a matter of fact…" Auror ignored the scandalized 'Moody' hissed by Molly and send her a small glare, that made her mouth pinch tightly. He focused both of his eyes on Hermione. "As a matter of fact, he did. Lupin, give them their letters."

Whatever method was used to call the Order, it was effective, because Remus barely had the time to give out all the letters (sneakily hid as soon as they touched the owners hands in the simple case of 'out of sight out of mind' thinking), before the kitchen grew more crowded. Sleepy eyed people nodded to each other tiredly, confused and nervous, accepting their cups of tea or coffee, before setting themselves in their usual spots. Unscheduled meetings in dark times were never appreciated.

Finely, the room was full.

Albus Dumbledore walked in, his yellow robes a true cause for impending headache, even at the late hour still looking fresh as cucumber. He took his seat at the head of the table, peering curiously at the present teenagers who sat close to each other, their expression daring anyone to try and throw them out. And then his heart skipped a bit, because Harry was not among them, and if he knew that boy, all the king's horses wouldn't be able to keep him out of the center of things. Which meant only one thing…

"Potter is missing." Announced Moody with his characteristic bluntness. Naturally, chaos ensured. Alastor rubbed the bridge of his nose, understandably missing working with people who knew when to shut up. Kingsley on his right appeared to share his sentiment, even if his facial expressions were hard to decipher on the best day.

"Splendid. You have dragged us at unearthly hour because Saint Potter took a midnight stroll. He probably mopes somewhere and moans about how hard he has it." Snape drawled with distaste. Moody looked at him like he saw particularly ugly worm and. He wasn't the only one, most of the order members had no sympathy for this dour man, who never made any effort at all to be, if not polite then neutral. Maybe it was too much to expect courtesy from someone who likes threatening children with death of their beloved pets and made even seventh years cry.

Moody's not so secret fantasy was dragging the man before Wizengamot and watching him take one way trip on the boat to Azkaban. Usefulness as a spy can not be dismissed, of course, but in his private opinion, it shouldn't outweigh the damage done to wizarding world. And Alastor knew very well who was the reason most of those bright kids, that thought about Auror or Healer career never made it past their OWL's. So, he observed very closely Snape's reaction for his next words. He was not disappointed.

"For a month".

"What?!"

For a moment there was only stunned silence. Not everybody knew the details, but it was common knowledge that Potter was under surveillance twenty four hours, seven days a week ever since he came back from school. Which didn't explain… _how_?

"We arrived exactly half past ten, the adults were already in bed, cousin was in his room listening to music, and I use this term loosely, playing on one of those time eating contraptions of theirs." Tonks murmured with a side of her mouth 'Computer', like it was supposed to tell them anything. Moody patted her hand without looking at her, pointedly glancing at Lupin.

"Harry's room was empty. And the smell was somewhat atrocious. The only thing out of place was that." Remus patted his coat, taking out sheet of paper, glaring at it like it somehow betrayed him.

He put the ' _Congrats_ ' card on the table next to Emmeline Vance, who immediately took it, her jaw about hitting the floor from the sheer audacity, before passing it to Strugis Podmore.

Tonks took over, pulling out the note that she found on the trunk.

"He left this where his things were hidden, under lock and key by those 'people'," there was no mistaking the derision in her voice," in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry's first bedroom." Before anybody tried to stop her she straightened the paper and started to read.

 _I am very sorry for worrying you. More sorry then I can say. But I am not sorry for leaving and that is one thing I refuse to feel guilty about it._

 _I can not offer more reasons as for 'why' ,then the the ones I already gave. I can not make things better, because it's me still breathing in and out that makes them worse and I am about to stop that only when my time comes and not for big fat bullies trying kill me. I am contrary like that. I can't come back, not now, not when I feel like if I spend another moment in enclosed space I will drown and disappear in my head and never come back._

 _It's the hottest summer in years and I am cold and tired, and if I am not about to get sick, I will kiss Snape on his crooked mouth, I shit you not. Sorry to say, I don't think it's the kind of sick, that will go with Pepper-Up._

 _I know you will try to find me, whatever from misplaced sense of duty, because you need me for this one thing that nobody talks, but everyone thinks I am ignorant about. Or maybe out of love and friendship. I know you will try._

 _I won't run forever. I don't plan for forever._

 _Just that little bit, to catch my feet, to breath without being crushed to the ground by unspoken of expectations, to walk around with no weight to my name. Dress up for a bit as any other wand waving boy among other boys, indistinguishable from any other._

 _So please, don't be mad?_

 _Wish you all the luck in the world._

 _With love,_

 _HJP_

"What a sentimental angsty babble. Woe me…"

"Are you talking about yourself, perhaps, sir? Hoping for a peck?" Growled Charlie, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a fight. Fred and George mimicked puking which made Ron interesting shade of purple and green. "Or maybe you are just jealous that he could choose freedom? Had the guts to pull it off. Is trying to make something off himself."

"What he is is arrogant and reckless, and the only thing he can make of himself is canon fodder." Snarled Snape, his sallow face caught in the familiar sneer. He didn't seemed to be very concerned by the way Charlie was already pushing up the sleeves of his flanel shirt, exposing scared freckled forearms and Ron looking like he might at some point join his brother if not for Hermione's hand pushing him down. Maybe she should have done the same to Ginny, since the youngest Weasley's hand was halfway to her wand.

"What he is is clever, resourceful and sneaky." Hissed Sirius already on his feet, his mouth twisted and fists going white on the table. He barely spend any time with his godson, but Merlin be merciful to that spiteful man, for he had quite enough. "And ten times the man you will ever be."

"He succeeded in spite of his incompetence. That and luck, nothing else."

"Oh, so you think that he avoided detection for entire July by luck? " Asked coldly Remus, sending a briefest glance at Sirius, who sat down, with unreadable expression. "Do you suffer from sort of selective hearing disorder, Severus? You are peeved because he had proven you're wrong. He was cunning and that personally offends you, because you didn't see it coming. And don't you sneer at me, I am not eleven year old and distinctly remember that you sat at the front of his house few times, ergo, he fooled you too. Need a bandage for that ego of yours?" If looks could kill, Lupin would be a distinctly unimpressive smear on the nearest wall. It came as a bit of surprise that it came from him, since he usually shied away from confrontation. But then, people liked to collectively forget that a shabby sweater does not a man made. Besides, Snape was the kind of person that pushed everybody buttons just by being his normal lovable self.

"But Harry wouldn't run away, not like that. He wouldn't." Whispered brokenly Mrs Weasley, dabbing her eyes with flower patterned kerchief. Snape rolled his eyes, but for once he proved that Slytherin's self-preservation was a real thing, just sparingly exercised. Ron threw his mother incredulous look.

"But he would. He already did, last year. Harry was packed and gone and in Leaky before anyone got to him in ten minutes flat. We told you that he was miserable, but you didn't believe us."

"Ronald!"

"He had bars in the windows!" Growled George, glaring at his mother, still peeved that she didn't believe when they told her the first time.

"That's enough." Ron bristled. Hermione looked torn between standing up for her friend and bowing down before Headmaster's curt tone. Nobody looked very happy, Sirius with tightly pressed lips stared with wordless accusation at the side of Dumbledore's head. "Remus, can you show us what he wrote?"

A small notebook that was earlier resting under Lupin's palm landed in the middle ot the table, where it was snatched by eager hands. The first few pages were shifted with reverent slowness, like they contained the secrets of the universe, but then with increased agitation Sirius nearly ripped it in half. He raised his head.

"I can't read it. It's coded."

Spell after spell landed on the paper showing…nothing. Wands tapped on the thin cardboard cover, every known revealing spell cast and working in its own way… or more accurately, just making a mess more jumbled then before. Sequences of numbers changed into unreadable squiggles. Doodles became colorful blobs. In the end with one resigned 'Finite' it returned to its original form.

"And there is that. Your oh-so-smart godson's notes, full of gibberish."

Hermione got up, fed up and tired and worried, shooting her professor a haughty glare.

"Just because you can't read it doesn't mean it's useless, …sir." Fred couldn't hide a smirk while his brother was blinking off imaginary tears. Their friends were of the more serious sort, but the way Hermione could say any compliment as an insult…now, that was a special kind of talent. Mundugus Fleatcher who was the closest to the notebook, pushed it toward her with something close to 'by all means' looking over the goblet made of pure silver. She opened it on the first page, frowned and then turned it upside down, slowly rotating it. Suddenly her eyes widened and a chuckle got out unchecked, when she finely figured out a way to read it, snatched the goblet right out of disgruntled Fleatcher's hand, pouring the cheap wine down the drain and a moment later she deciphered the first few words. Then she started to laugh, tears running down, fingers touching decoded message. The relief was so sudden that she barely found the edge of her chair.

Till this moment some part of her was still convinced that Harry was kidnapped, made to write those things and then taken against his will in some elaborate plan. But this, this meant that it was real, and maybe she should be mad, but for now she knew that Harry was alright and that made all the difference in the world. Maybe even better then alright, going by the tone of his last letter that came barely ten hours ago.

Doesn't mean that she won't make him pay for worrying her so.

"Miss Granger?" Blue eyes hidden by the half moon glasses peered at her, curios, but some of the worry bled out after noticing her reaction. She cleared her throat.

" _'Dear Hermione, I knew you would get there. Have fun, Harry_.' That's the first sentence. He used skip code and mirror, nothing magical about it at all. "

"He used the what?"

It took few moments to explain how Cesar Cypher worked and wasn't that a treat to get one over wizards, that believed that if it can't be done by magic it can't be done at all.

"So can we translate it?" Asked Bill, already itching to know more. Codes and ciphers and long lost languages was in his lifeblood and realizing that muggle world was not devoid of those meant a lot of new possibilities.

Hermione bent her head over scribbles, pen mysteriously finding its way into her hand. Minutes tickled by and after initial few words no sounds of furious scratching penetrated the air. Finely she looked up with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

"My best friend is brilliant asshole."

Ron giggled followed by Ginny and a moment later room filled with the sound of twittering people, breaking the heavy nervous atmosphere. Hermione colored slightly, her frizzly hair covering the redness of her ears.

"So what did he write? " Asked Ginny, leaning over Hermione's shoulder, glancing at the page that translated part was on.

"Bread, granola, sugar…is that…is that a shopping list?" She asked with disbelief. "Oh, Merlin…that's so…Harry."

"Bored, salty and bit peeved Harry," added Ron with a grin, watching as Hermione's forehead hit the table as she groaned pitifully. "Well, I would be pissed too, if someone would send me somewhere I don't care to be and then not tell me anything at all."

There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes skimmed over adults in the room. Very deliberately avoiding Sirius, since the man begged, pleaded and cajoled any chance he got to get Harry to come or at the very last, to tell him what was happening. Out of everyone in the room he probably understood the most the need to just be able to walk free, even if it is just to the nearest shop for a bag of peanuts.

"Yes, but why me? Ugh…You are going to help me and…Bill, you too. Twins? Once we figure out the keys, translation will be simple, if somewhat tedious."

"Keys? As in plural?" Asked Bill, pushing his chair closer and paging through the notebook, like he was holding a map to a treasure hunt.

"I tried to skip his two pages long shopping list and cut straight to the cheese, but it has changed into string of letters. Which means that somewhere between bread and butter is a clue to the next message, a key word. We will have to find it and then figure out what other code he used. And that means we have to go through all of this, whatever he wrote, to get the tiniest bit of information."

"Oh, goody." Bill clapped his hands like Christmas came early, then copied the page few times, giving them off to his somewhat disgruntled siblings, and then happily went through the gibberish, noting carefully down every fourth word.

Above their heads already an argument brewed, if it was wise to give the task to Harry's friends who might want to cover vital information. In the end, the general feeling was that it was in their best interest to find their wayward friend safe and sound. Naturally in the typical adult fashion, they did not care much about the opinions of the teenagers. Would they care for it, they would realize that while safety was important factor, they all were aware that wherever Harry was, it made him happy.

And, as they were people that spend the most time with their bespectacled trouble magnet, they knew it was a rare case, indeed.

Most of the crowd dispersed, small teams were set to patrol the most crucial places, but with instruction to keep up the illusion, that Harry Potter was under protection and glad to be there. There was still one full month till September, and the less anybody outside the room knew, the better the chances for retrieving their wandering boy wonder.

At the single knock on the kitchen door everybody froze in place. Nobody else was supposed to be there now, at this hour. And then they heard familiar bark.

Charlie, who sat the closest to the door, slid from his seat, score of wands behind his back already waiting to unleash unholy hell should it turn into trouble. Doorknob turned. On the floor at Charlie's feet lay a rolled up wad of parchment and a single white feather. The corridor was completely empty. Somewhat bemused he sat down once again, twirling the feather in his fingers.

"Hedwig," whispered Sirius, hand traveled towards letter, unrolling it carefully.

 _Hello everyone,_

 _Hedwig told me that you've finely found out, so there is no point of keeping this charade up. I am safe. Maybe even the most safe I have ever been. More importantly, I am happy._

 _I has plans, lot of them, all carefully noted and each place researched as far as I could, while still trapped in fluffy and doily filled hell, but then life happened and I stumbled over some wonderful people. Unusual, brilliant people who helped and continue to help me._

 _A lot._

 _They are bit neurotic, unnervingly insightful and have ten thousand of quirks, but they are also caring and tactile and never boring. They don't do boring. Domestic? Utterly. Boring? Perish the thought. They are the kind of people that make you either read between the lines or sunk in the land of confusion previously unknown to mankind, so I have to dust off few of my grey cells and try to keep up. It's like playing charades daily and, while annoying sometimes, they never hold it against me if I don't get things right._

 _Well, lets call them William and Hamish, shall we?_

 _They have little baby together, Kat, she is always down for cuddles on bad days, even if it ends in slobber and jam in my hair._

 _It looks like those are the only kisses I will be getting this summer._

 _I eat my own weight a day, I swear. I will come back looking like a snake that swallowed an egg and that would be tragedy. There goes my Quidditch career, watch it fly by as I wave her goodbye… but have you ever tried sushi? Or pierogi? Spicy curry? Hogwarts food is delicious, but I think I will wither and die without onion soup with olive ciabatta and lemon tea done by Mrs. She knows her tea._

 _Great Merlin…I adore it here. Ever heard that saying that 'every blessing ignored becomes a curse'? I'm making the best I can with a time I spend here, thanking whatever gods continue to give me those chances. I didn't know how heavy was my name till I've left it behind, even if just for the moment. If I had a choice, if things were different, I think I'd still choose them._

 _I spend a lot of time doing things I missed out doing as a kid. Learned to ride a bike. I'd say I had a bruise to prove it but nope, sorry, all gone by now. We took a road trip, all four of us, I think Kat had the most fun, not having to pedal anywhere. We all looked like a wet mice before we finely arrived home, but it was well worth it._

 _Swimming is a lot harder when you decide to go without gillyweed, and the ocean is just a notch above freezing. Never expected it to be so … encompassing._

 _It's scary. Beautiful but scary. And salty like Hamish, when he doesn't get his half an hour of 'alone time'._

 _It's funny how stars can appear so much brighter when you so rarely look up. Or sleep in a hammock because someone ( and I won't point fingers, you know who you are ) bundled you up in a ton of blankets and didn't wake you up. I hate mosquitoes._

 _I rode a horse. And I will tell you that it's not at all like hippogryph, I walked funny for hours and you are not allowed to laugh. Much. By the way, did you know how many studs of Aethonans are in Britain? You'd think that someone would mention that there is one more way to fly to a person who loves to fly. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. I only saw them when they were gliding in the sky, and what a view it was._

 _Lesson to you. If someone shows you how to hit somebody so they would drop their wand and then fall unconscious, and tell you to practice it, they don't mean knock them out. Of course, my lovely guardians thought it was the funniest thing since Monty Python but I think, that the person I've done it to didn't appreciate it, so…now I am fooling around with ex MI-5 agent and get my ass handled to me on a dinner plate._

 _Not that I am moaning about it, it's a very nice way to spend your time, releases endorphins, helps with blood pressure, leaves you in a puddle of ache and misery to be scrambled off the ground by well meaning pedestrian._

 _It's an experience._

 _Which is why I sleep like a hibernating bear and they have to resort to underhanded tactic to rise me up. It involves curls, puppy eyes and being called Unkie. Merlin, that one will break hearts as often as she will break bones, with dads like that._

 _I am of course, taking Hedwig home now, she won't deliver any messages, since I know that you would rather keep an eye on me instead of letting me be and I know what tracking charm is. Sorry guys, not going to happen._

 _Don't worry folks, you will hear from me, but now I have to go, there is a bucket of strawberry ice-cream with my name on it and a baby who is eyeing her Legos._

 _Love you and miss you all, see you soon,_

 _Harry_

"Home." Whispered Ron, gaining looks from the only residents of Grimmauld Place. "Did you ever heard him calling Dursley's house home? "

"Never. Hogwarts is his home." Hermione worried her lower lip with his teeth. "You think….that he wouldn't want to come back? "

They sat for a moment in silence, trying to imagine world where Harry Potter doesn't come back to school, isn't there for breakfast, dressed up proudly in red and gold and laughing for something Ron said, looking fondly at Hermione while packing toast for her to nibble on when she is too deep in lecture. Sitting before the match between Angelina and Alicia, absentmindedly rotating his wrists, already too focused inward to be fully a part of conversation. Chewing on sugar quills, because he liked the crunch between his teeth, a fact that made Hermione cringe and finely scream his name, only to be offered the rest of the box, like it was all excuse to share. The way he would smile, only with his eyes, when he spotted someone doing something kind, and letting it carry him through the day with just that little bit of bounce added to his steps, which in turn made people around him just that bit happier, seemingly with no reason at all.

They already found themselves missing him, the thought of him not coming back was unbearable.

"He will come back." Murmured gently Remus, sliding into a set opposite Hermione, with Sirius at his side. "He already said that, and Harry isn't the kind of person who breaks their promise, especially promise made to a friend. What we will have to do..." The man leaned closer, looking at Mrs Weasley who was chopping onions, whatever to prepare breakfast or just have an excuse to have a bit of a cry without people trying to cheer her up. He shook his head. "What we have to do is make sure that he can, at the very last spend some time with those people next year, they seem to be doing him lot of good."

"And that we will be able to see him. I don't like the idea of him sneaking and running away like a thief in the night, just so he could be both safe and content with his lot. I am sure that he would want to have all the people he loves at his side." Added Hermione, her mouth set. She never liked the thought of Harry with Dursley people and the way he seemed to shrunk every time she hugged him at the beginning of the year was filling her with justified anger. She worked hard for this friendship, damn it, so did Harry. So did Ron. They always tried to support her, even when they weren't all that happy with her, so it would be the high of disloyalty to not help him find...family. A dad or two. Little sister.

She suddenly had the vision of Harry tying pigtails on a baby girl's head, his tongue sticking to the side while he tries put elastics on wiggling baby's hair. Slowing down from that too fast pace of his to trot, so the short legs could keep up with him. Learning babytalk. Giving piggybacks. It hit her that her friend must be doing just that, living with a tiny person for whom he would fight for, because he already loved her like a little sister. They can't just take him away, not on her watch.

"It's a bit hard since we don't have idea who those people are." That made her slow down a little and refocus of Ron. "Merlin knows that the bloke deserves a bit of normal in his life. Ouch, whoa?" He glared at his only sister who none too gently jabbed him in the ribs. He caught himself just in time to see his mother sending them suspicious look. "I miss him, it's never boring with him around. "

Molly turned, misty eyed and sad, Sirius climbed up on his feet, sending them a wink over his shoulder and with a swipe of the wand, butter knife danced and started to work on a pile of still warm toasts.

Remus took out the one letter that he didn't want an Order to read, Moody and Tonks concurred. It was something that shouldn't be shared with so many strangers, as Ministry already was doing everything in their power to destroy Harry's reputation. And he knew at least one person who would use it against the child out of simple unchecked pettiness.

They bowed their heads to read the letter and afterwards shared a look among themselves.

And just like that, the decision was made.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Still.

The summer air was heavy and already too warm, even this early in the morning. Heat wave hit Britain few days ago and left the grass with yellowish tint, roads dusty and in some places asphalt had melted like fine dark chocolate, clinging to wheels and rising tempers. Hospitals were working full time, as people swarmed in with quite common for this weather headaches and nausea, disregarding the advice to not venture outside without reason and that hydration was not optional.

It was the perfect time however, for a noticeable increase of lawlessness, severe drop in manners and occasional riot. Sadly, it had a added bonus of the crime drop that involved kidnapping, murder and organized crime, which meant that the only excitement at 221b in the last two weeks was not mysterious, if quite tragic, death of their elderly mailman and Catherine screaming 'thanks Obama' every time she saw her shadow in the last three days. Lestrade's call sounded like an angels choir, as it seemed that there was at least one killer not scared of little heat.

When Sherlock slid out of taxi, John fast on his heels, he thought that maybe that fear was somewhat justified. They didn't even try to pretend that they weren't sweaty and gasping the moment the car's air conditioning became only a distant memory riding toward North London. The sun was barely up, sky still bathed in baby pink and not even one fluffy cloud in sight, the only thing to break the monotony were white-ish streaks left by planes. It said something about the state of things, when Londoners started to actually miss the rain.

Police cars were already parked under large tree, standing next to two story house. The lawn looked like it didn't see good mowing in the last decade, knee high hard weeds and sharp grass grew willy-nilly, sprouting up between stone patch upraised by nearby bush roots. Windows glared with eyes made of broken glass, those that still hanged whole between jagged shards were nearly as grey and impenetrable as concrete. Ivy crawled up the dirty brown brick wall like an infection, spreading up and reaching the roof with thin, barely covered coils.

This whole place looked…filthy. And matched the rest of the street about as well as dog house resembles a palace, which is to say they both have roof and walls, but comfort of living is debatable.

Sherlock slid under police tape, rising it up to let his partner slip through, an action which always produced a smile that moved only one side of John's lips. They shared a look and went inside, their hands brushing.

As it turned out, outside was positively luminous in comparison. The air was full of dust, thick enough to resemble a grey swirling fog in the meager light that penetrated through caked windows. Heat was overwhelming, and only amplified atrocious smells, that made the officers mingling around cover their noses and blink tears from watering eyes. Floor, once covered in wood panels distorted in places, creaked with every step, footprints visible in the earth that gathered over the years, dragged inside by many shoes. And now the evidence got trampled over by overeager youngsters.

Sherlock felt the headache coming.

"Lestrade." John went to stand next to their mutual friend in what was once main room, yawning widely and paying for it with thunderous sneeze, scrubbing his eyes with a back of his hand. Sherlock barely made a move toward the body propped up between the wall and ancient looking low TV stand, when silver haired man mentioned him over.

The window they stood by overlooked an overgrown backyard garden, two large trees gave long shadows, even when some of the leaves had already wilted and turned sickly yellow. On the side, along the brick wall stood dark wooden shed with lone window covered in bars. A single rose bush was stubbornly clinging to life, climbing over the wall, one of the very few spots of colour. Lestrade discreetly moved his head toward taller tree. They fallowed his gaze. About fourteen feet from the ground, hidden by a mass of overlapping branches and screen of yellowish-green vegetation was a person.

"That's why you called us? Really? Even Kitty was still sleeping. Damn it Greg." John, understandably was less then tickled about it. Especially since Sherlock finished the last of jam the day before and he had to eat his toast dry. In taxi. At god-damn-o'clock in the morning. He was expecting something more exciting then someone swinging on a tree.

"Shhh…" Older man looked over at his team and then back at men, that made him regularly question why he was still friends with those cranky idiots."It's a teenager. He was there before we came. He doesn't move, doesn't try to hide, either. Waved at me when he saw me looking at him, but didn't get down. He just…watches."

"He is waiting." Sherlock hummed low in his throat, then spun around, heading toward terrace doors.

"For what?" John was already half a step behind him, all too happy to leave the stuffy room, Lestrade fallowed then, wiping his brow and happily gulping fresher air.

"For us to put the pieces together. He found the body." It was not the question, but DI nodded anyway, carefully trudging through weeds that slowed them down. Even Sherlock with his longer limbs had some problems, which was probably why John decided to walk behind both of them, the smug bastard. Sherlock fallowed already made trail with his eyes. It wired slightly to the left toward shed before it parted, second patch leading to trees on the edge of property.

"Someone called the closest police station just before five in the morning. Someone young, male and anonymous. They thought it was a joke, but they still send a patrol to check it, probably far later then they should, too. Surprise, a body exactly where they were told they would find it. I got a call while heading to work. He was already there."

"Before five?" Lestrade moved the report toward John. It read twelve to five." Quite early for a morning walk, especially for a teenager." John looked up.

The boy in question was eyeing them wearily, his whole side pressed hard against trunk. He was young, maybe fourteen, dressed in light blue torn jeans and long-sleeved washed out t-shirt. Even as high as he was, John could see the dark patches of sweat and the way it glistened on the child's skin. That was not good.

"That's because he slept here." Muttered Sherlock, making Lestrade pause and make a small gesture that they interpreted as 'later', before he focused on the boy, John siding with him on a whim.

"Good morning." Called out Lestrade, standing just far enough to not get himself a permanent crick in the neck.

"Not for Johann, DI Lestrade." Greg peered at him suspiciously, but his face cleared when the child took out the phone from one of the large pockets of his jeans and waved ot gently. "Don't be surprised, somebody has unprotected wifi and I heard your name, not exactly a leap of logic there."

"Then you should know who we are." Stated Sherlock, his head cocked to the side, a wrinkle forming between his eyes the more he noticed about their witness. From the too big trainers, light shine on visible knees that could only be plasters to how hard he was holding onto tree trunk.

"If you aren't curiously well disguised child services, then I think you might be Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. I skimmed through your blogs and articles, before you came." He paused, bemused, putting the phone in his pocket and brushing his hand through the sweaty tangled hair with grimace. "Where the pink lady's white umbrella came from?"

"Pardon?" John frowned, trying to remember if that was true. He glanced at his partner and then did a double take because Sherlock was…John remembered that face. It was the same look he was given just seconds after he gimped up all the way those beloved seventeen steps to meet a madman already waiting there to open the door. He loved that face, it appeared frequently, but that was the first time he saw it directed at another person outside of their circle of friends. Sherlock liked him. That spindly-legged child sitting on giant oak tree, that he only just met.

"It's in the records. Everything she owned was pink. Shoes, case, jacket…then why the umbrella was white?" He asked in strangely breathy voice.

"She bought it on the station. One of those cheap things that break when you use it more then twice. Child, please get down."

Both John and Greg suddenly stared at the dark haired man, his voice going from matter-of-fact tone to soft tremble. He looked worried, eyes zeroed like a hawk on the slight silhouette above their heads. Kid nodded. And then swallowed and blinked rapidly, like the movement made him disoriented. He stretched up to reach the backpack hanging behind him, and swayed in place, his breath coming out as a gasp. Oh god.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, I will get your things down for you, no worries. Can you get down by yourself? Be honest, please, no false bravado." Inquired John, tried to squash the sudden vision of the boy toppling from the tree. Sherlock didn't wait for an answer. He was already climbing up. It wasn't that high, maybe around four meters, but hospitals are full of people who fell from less.

"Is that place taken?" Asked Sherlock, his hand pointing at the thick branch to kid's right. He was answered by a soft breathy chuckle, and horribly mangled 'mi casa es su casa' before heaving himself up. He stretched out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

Hard, calloused fingers wrapped around his in a firm handshake, the greenest eyes he had ever seen peered at him with tired amusement over the ugly chunky glasses. Plump lips were barely raised in a clear effort to smile, but it was falling short. This close Sherlock felt the clinging smell of cigarette smoke and sweat. He pulled the boy toward himself without warning, their chest colliding. Boy yelped half in surprise and half from pain, but he landed safely, held firmly with one arm against man's torso while his own hand was still grasping the tree and half sitting on the branch.

Gangly shaking limbs took hold around Sherlock's shoulders in a vice grip, while teenager moaned into white clad chest and then laughed with an edge of pain in his voice.

"Asshole" He muttered hoarsely, glasses digging into his face, but his hold was strangely sure for someone in his state. He was panting, but calming with every passing second, while Sherlock just let him cling, breathing slowly and evenly, hand lightly skimming over child's arm, hoping that it worked the same way on teenagers as it did on toddlers. It took some maneuvering, but a moment later legs wrapped around his hips with barely a cue, clinging like a monkey to Sherlock's back. Overheated skin of slightly coarse cheek rested in the juncture between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, making his stomach churn in worry.

Leaning hard against the trunk he unhooked the backpack, throwing it straight into John's waiting arms, child moving with him instead of proving to be just a awkward ballast.

He took a deep breath and started climbing down.

"Rescued from the tree like a kitten. Let's never talk about it."

"Agreed." And then his hand slipped with a broken branch still in his grip, dry wood snapping loud and clear like a gunshot. His heart jumped in his throat, but before the unmerciful force of gravitation pulled them both down, arm tightened hard against his shoulders and he nearly lost his breath when long legs squeezed his middle, but unavoidable didn't happen. He blinked, flailing limb searching for another stable point to hold on. Above his head, long fingers were tightening on a piece of wood, nails digging painfully in the dry scratchy bark, tremor going through overstrained limb that for a moment held the weight of two.

Sherlock released a shaky breath.

"I've got you. It's okay, you can let go. I will get you down." He didn't care for the way his voice suddenly went higher and shakier then it should. He glanced down at John, who went completely still and pale, Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. "We are alright. Just a moment longer. Let go. Shhhh…" Without really thinking about it he pressed his mouth to the side of trembling boy's head. Sweaty jet black hair, smelling of dust and strangely enough, ozone, tickled his nose. Bloodied palm slid slowly, stiffly and then gripped the blue jeans, leaving red and green stains, staying there.

"Are you hurt?" Shaggy head moved to the sides. "Then what…?"

"Your shirt." Christ, of all the things to fret about, the last one was some blood on his collar.

"Screw my shirt, come here".

When his feet finely hit the ground he swore to buy a better pair of shoes. And that maybe he should stick with dead bodies and chasing the criminals and leave climbing trees to John.

"And what do you think you are doing?" He asked, feeling the boy loosening his grip, trying to weasel out from under Sherlock's arm.

"I thought of walking, you know, one leg before the other, mix it up a little."

John let out short barking laugh, coming closer, clicking his teeth at the elevated pulse on the thin wiry wrist and skimming over too warm cheeks. And not liking one bit how the child went stiff and weary the second he saw a hand coming his way. It was fearful reaction that spoke volumes and he didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to draw his own conclusions.

"We are taking you out of here. Lestrade left his car on, so we better go before someone will be tempted to nick it. You're sure you can walk?"

"Done crazier things." Child stood up straighter, rolled his shoulders and took a small step. And then, like he thought better of it, he slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist, his jaw set and daring him to complain. John took one look at his partner face and then at his young addition clinging to him like barnacle to a rock and snorted. And then giggled. And continued giggling all the way toward the door, as Sherlock mostly amused, even when he tried to pretend to be annoyed, trudged through the weeds, supporting boy's meager weight.

They went in.

"Hey, look, Freak found himself a younger one. But toffee? Really? Thought you were vanilla guy." The child was gone from his side faster then he thought probable, stalking the man like a predator who zeroed on helpless prey and Sherlock could swear that the dark mane sprouting from his head like a fluffy dandelion looked even wilder then just a moment before.

They had a distinct pleasure of watching a policeman, nearly decade into his job, tripping all over his legs to back off from the nearly half a head shorter boy. A boy who ripped glasses from his face with a scowl and crowded the man against filthy wall, pinning him there without rising a single finger. It was a strange thought that the dark haired teenager dressed up in hand-me downs that swallowed his frame could, from one second to next become dangerous with no posturing, no screaming, no effort at all.

"Are you rehearsing for assholery award or does dumb comes naturally for you?" Hissed teenager. Then added with a low growl at the puffing of the policeman chest. "Silence. Your name, officer."

"Listen here…" Stuttered the man, trailing off when dirty finger pointed at his nose making him cross-eyed, focused on it like he was looking at a viper about to strike, fight gone at one look from that poisonous green eyes.

"I don't care for your excuses. I am bloody fifteen, so if you are implying what everyone knows you are implying, then I sure as hell am not going to leave it like that. Your. Name. So I could report your racist, homophobic and pedophile charming self. And I am sure that your superiors would like to know about harassment of your co-workers, too."

"I am not! I was only joking. And I have a boyfriend."

"Well, nobody is laughing. And fucking your male co-worker doesn't cross you off the homophobic list. It just makes you a hypocrite."

Boy frowned and peered over his shoulder, when somewhere to his right somebody moaned 'oh great, there is another one', but before he had a chance to give his temper a free rein, an arm snuck around his stomach and he was bodily removed from his place with 'wooof'. He went with the move, hands already prepared to jab and fight and scratch if needs be, only to realize it was John who was dragging him away.

"Hey, I wasn't finished with that piss-witted, dickweasel, put me down!

John snorted, not loosening his grip, chased by scattered coughs that tried to cover laughter, while teenager wiggled like an angry cat. Sadly for him, John's grip while gentle was still too firm to be able to break it without taking more drastic measures. Measures, that the boy didn't seem to to want to undertake.

"I am preventing you from being arrested. Do you make a habit of fighting people bigger then you?" Asked John, putting his cumbersome package down on the sidewalk.

"I don't know, do you?" Was fired boldly at him without missing a bit, making Sherlock snicker behind his back.

"He's got you there." John rolled his eyes, standing the boy up and realizing that they are, in fact, even in height. Or rather, the boy was taller by what looked to be an inch and hair. Swallowed by his at least size too big clothes, hunched into himself and now on defensive, he looked smaller then he was. Weary, even when he let himself be led. There was tension in those not -as -narrow-as -previously-believed shoulders, readiness to fight, to run, to react the second that minuscule amount of trust he put in them would be betrayed. A survivor, if John had ever seen one. Sherlock opened car door and helped the teenager get in, seat already reclined and the inside nicely chilly. Thank god for Lestrade's foresight. Boy groaned deeply in relief and even before the doors closed, hummed contentedly, closing his eyes, letting his head fall back.

Somewhere, it the small hell on earth outside this blissfully cold heaven, two men had a conversation that didn't need even one word and ended in agreement before even single argument was made. To surprise of them both.

John tapped the window, green eyes meet his gaze and child nodded when Sherlock pointed at the back. He leaned over, keen eyes searching for a moment and then they heard a click, and car's boot jumped open.

"He barely sees through those glasses, I will get optometrist booked for tomorrow." John nodded, hiding fond smile, pulling out first aid from under Lestrade's jacket that lay, thrown and probably forgotten in the car boot.

And speak of the devil.

"How is he?" Questioned Greg, after he passed the bag to the boy in question, rough hand gently squeezing his in silent thank you, before door shut once again and they walked a safe distance to remain unheard.

"Spunky." Lestrade's raised his eyebrow at John, Sherlock looked gleeful and vindicated. It spelled trouble. "Fidelson made his usual inappropriate remarks. He included the kid. Kid retaliated."

"Please tell me I don't have to arrest him." Whined the man, thinking of all the added paperwork it would include. The day was already shaping to be shitty.

"No, John has dragged him out before your blundering idiot earned himself a kick in unmentionables. Rein him in, Greg. " Man opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself at the twist of Sherlock's mouth and the way John frowned so deeply, that he looked like he aged by decade. He knew those looks. "It's nothing we didn't hear before, nothing we can't deal with but he," scruffy chin pointed toward the boy who was very slowly munching on the crackers, chasing them down with tiny sips of water, "he is a kid, potential victim, potential witness, not a co-worker or stupidly attached boyfriend, he or anybody else should not have to suffer the slurs that come of that man's mouth. He also implied…" Sherlock uncharacteristically trailed off, with the sort of quiet anger ,that came only when the man was inches from doing some physical damage. It seems that the child reaction somehow prevented Sherlock from decking Fieldson then and there. Thank God for small mercies.

Lestrade's mouth set into tight line, with a sharp nod he veered around Sherlock, flying on the wings of quiet fury toward the once white, but now ashy gray and chipped door.

He could forgive a lot. Overlook a lot. He was one of those rare quality policemen, that knew that justice is more important then law and that to get it you need to learn how to work outside the book. Sometimes you need to trust a recovering addict who happen to be a genius with a large heart who needed people as much as this world needed him and ex army doctor with anger issues, adrenaline addiction and illegal gun. Sometimes you need to look the other way, because life was far more precious and important then unconventional methods. And at the times like this, what he needed was to act.

His friends rarely complained about important things. They had the same habit of whining about small inconveniences, but rarely ever the bigger issues, preferring to lick their wounds in quiet corners of their minds. In his private opinion their therapists would achieve sainthood before crossing Peter's Gates. For Sherlock to go on his way to be half a step from formal report, when he never made the same compliant against Anderson or Donavan, and they tormented him for years before they got their heads out of their asses, each in their own way, raised Greg's hackles.

Which meant that Markus Fieldson will be gone off from the case and on on every behavior management program, that Lestrade can find for his unprofessional foolish ass, if the man wants to keep his job. Should have done it sooner, too, but better now then never.

John watched them go, Greg not even noticing, that he had long legged smug shadow trailing after him with long measured steps. He opened the car's door on the driver's side and slipped into blessedly chilly inside, a full bottle of water moved into his vision. He nodded his thanks and took few gulps. His phone beeped.

 _Little princess is up, we are going to bury ourselves in my kitchen. Can you tell Sherlock to check on the !air-conditioning! It smells funny  
love, H_

He chuckled, briefly wondering if it's where the blueberry jam sandwich disappeared to. His daughter was as capricious as Sherlock can be, when it comes to food. But then, she has a excuse of her age. For now. Going by the way Kitty trails after her other dad like he is the next best thing since colour purple and swings, it might very well turn true in later years. He simply can not wait.

John turned his head toward the other passenger, question stopping dead before it left his mouth. Black, sweaty hair were pulled up, tied out of his face by orange elastic. Deep green eyes half hidden, long eyelashes casting shadows on dark cheeks as he squints, trying to look at Gatorade's list of ingredients held in his hand, and then at smartphone. The angle is just right for John to realize, that the child is searching whatever or not he can drink it safely. There are tissues, wet tissues, resting at the nape of his neck and somehow cleaner right wrist. Water bottle is nearly finished, but by the look of the darker patches on his shirt, not all of it was drank.

There is something hot and dark in John's stomach. The deep need to go and find whoever was responsible for the careful way the child holds himself, for the obvious experience in handling his own health, because there was nobody to count on but your own lonely self, is there. And it's screaming for blood.

"Apparently, this is shit." States the boy, holding the bottle up. His leg bouncing lightly in place. John blinks at him, torn from his darker thoughts, by the sound of low baritone, unclenching his stiff fists to glance up. Child looks better already. But still, there is a doubt nibbling at his brain ,if they shouldn't just taka a route to the hospital. "Something about bromine, dyes and neglecting calcium, magnesium and chloride?"

"No, I wouldn't recommend it, either." He answered absentmindedly as it occurs to him, that he has no idea what the kid's name is, and it's already awkwardly long time to ask it now. "Are your legs cramping?"

"Only a bit. And it's Harry." John briefly wonders if he did in fact asked out loud. He rewinds a bit, trying to remember the last few minutes and comes out short. "You were wondering about how to call me. It's Harry, well technically Hurricane, but yeah, Harry. Not Henry or Hovard or even Harold. Just Harry.

In the end, John just lets it be. He lives with a madmen who knows a lot of things he shouldn't and suspects even more. A kid who is so weirdly similar is nothing new. There were probably millions of others, who are able to do the same in their own ways, but there is still only one Sherlock, and John is content with that. The world was not ready for more then one.

They sit for a while in silence, child, Harry, taking tiny sips from his bottle and nibbling on banana, while John is searching the bag for pincers after putting the rest of essentials aside.

"I can't do an awful lot with that, but I can look it over for you." Offers John finely, pointing at the splotches of dried blood on boy's palm. Harry after a second of hesitation lets him cradle his scratched up hand, not even frowning, when second later antiseptic touches his skin. Two long splinters were pulled out as gently as one can menage. "You have reflex like a cheetah." Harry snorted, watching as the man wrapped his hand in a thin gauze. "I am serious, I saw it and still don't believe that anybody can have reaction that fast. Especially when you seem to have problem keeping your eyes open. Show me your other hand." Left arm lay where it was, fingers twitching before he moved slowly, body twisting toward John, hand hovering few inches in the air, waiting. The doctor took it, from under the sleeve of washed out T-shirt peeked a slightly dirty bandage. With a sudden feeling of impending doom, blunt fingers moved the softened cotton up and away, only to discover that bandage covered all the skin from wrist to elbow.

Harry squirmed in place, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks when he was trying to avoid John's gaze.

 _Please, please dear god, let it be something else._

He unrolled the fabric, spinning it into a roll as he finely clasped his eyes on what Harry'd tried to hide. And couldn't quite stop the sigh of pure relief, when all the damage he saw looked accidental instead of self delivered. But under the colony of mottled, bruised skin rests a pinkish, jagged scar. And he likes it not one bit.

"I fell." Admitted Harry after a moment, his right hand moving through his hair and then settling fisted on his thigh, thumb moving over the edge of thin gauze. "Some asshole thought that five feet from a bike is a suggestion and I landed in the ditch when he went for it. I lost all my food and water..."

And that explains why someone as sensible as the lad, who was now watching with unhappy frown John's fingers moving along the bone, pressing into blackened bruises and barely scabbed skin, remained so long without essentials.

"You couldn't buy...?" Harry's face twisted into something far too despondent for someone so young.

"Did you see how much a bottle of water costs in that little shop near Oak Inn? " John shook his head, his stomach heavy, like filled with lead. There was never a moment in his life when he couldn't afford bare necessities. He never went hungry. Even in the worst times there was always enough to buy new shoes, bread and bagged tea. "When I took a look and had to go without buying it, I swear the owner looked at me like I was some sort of...criminal. Just waiting for a moment to rob him blind. You'd think that one would get used to this."

"It's not your job to get used to this. It's everybody else job to stop being deepshits."

"Thank you, Dr Watson." He had a feeling that it wasn't about putting some cream on bruised skin. With careful fingers and inquisitive eyes, he reached toward sad looking washed out yellow shirt, hooking pointer finger over the edge. Harry took a shaky breath and helped to expose his sun kissed stomach and chest and a swath of plaster on the hip, the edge hiding under visible line of underwear.

"Christ." Gasped John, looking at the boy's side, colored black and purple and wondering how in ever loving hell he was even able to move at all.

"It looks worse then it is, nothing's broken or cracked, I wasn't riding very fast. Got rattled a bit, that's all."

"You have the worst of luck, aren't you?"

"My life is tragic." Announced Harry with dramatic flair, all with the back of his hand draped on his scared forehead, there was a tiny smile hiding in his crooked mouth. John realized that, for all his cautious and skittish nature, their new, yet unaware, housemate was a little shit. He smiled. What is one more charismatic charming asshole in his life?

"Knowing my luck it will rain like this very moment." Harry leaned over in his car seat, looking up at the blue cloudless skies. "Fuck. But worth a shot."

"Can't do much about it, so it will have to wait till we get you home." The boy's breath hitches, playful spark squashed as he goes pale, eyes wide and panicked.

"No, no, I can't go back there. No." He is nearly out of his seat, hand clutching hard on his backpack, breath frozen in his chest, when John tugs him back, as gently as he can. He gets an elbow into his ribs for his trouble, but he finely finds a better grip, nearly dragging the child onto his lap.

"No! No. We are not sending you there. Easy, easy. Just breathe. In, hold a moment aaand slowly out. I have you, it's alright, nothing's happening. You are safe. In, good, good, hold on to it. Out."

And this is how Sherlock finds them. The unflappable teenager who witnessed a murder, weak as a kitten but with a bite of a tiger is now mostly wrapped in John's arms, coming out for large gulps of air, like he is drowning. He slides into car, as quietly as he can, Lestrade coming from the other side. They see the struggle to squash the rising panic, to let go off the shirt, that he is clutching so tightly. Eyes full of tears, even when not a one falls.

Lord, the child is stubborn. Which makes it both better and worse, gaining his trust will be like climbing a mountain in flip-flops, because once bitten, twice shy. (Sherlock doubted that it was only once). But then, the gods were rarely in their favor, and bad odds never stopped them from acting. Sherlock had a feeling, that once they break through the layers and sooth the obvious wounds, who will come out on the other side will rise beyond the wildest imaginations. There was something bright burning in that child, they have to just make sure that he won't burn at both ends. It will be worth it, in the end, he knows it. Sherlock doesn't invest in people who don't show potential, he doesn't bother with average. He has learned, of course, to appreciate the insight of a lesser mind, but then, his loved ones are anything but statistical normal people. And he choose them the same way they've chosen him so, what is one more?


	5. Chapter 5

By general, unspoken consensus, they don't interrogate Harry then and there nor they consider taking him to police station. His appearance at the crime scene is waved off as circumstantial, at least to the rest of the team working in the stuffy overheated building. Instead, a car is called to take care of the bike that stood hidden in the shed, while Greg takes them to Baker Street. Sherlock doesn't even make a peep about riding in the back of police car, amusing himself by watching his lover trying to fit behind Harry's seat and finely admitting defeat and sliding closer to his side, their legs bumping, hands tangled together laying on his thigh. They breath for a moment, mentally preparing themselves for whatever was to come, while Harry naps, and they don't have to wonder if he did so in the night. The smudges under his eyes spoke for themselves.

The trip takes less then an hour and before they know it, they climb out next to black door, letting Lestrade to find a parking place somewhere.

The moment Mrs Hudson clasp her eyes on a long-limbed teenager, barely over John's height but looking as thin as Himself, looking at her sheepishly over Sherlock's shoulder, like he isn't sure if he should be there at all, she declares him Ward of 221 in her mind. She is the queen in this castle, and mercy on those who will try to take him away.

Her floral dress twirls in a circle when she spins toward the kettle, taking out her favorite summer tea. And then she sits him down, waving away their protest about case and puts a plate of oatmeal biscuits with raisins before him, absentmindedly patting his shoulder. Soon enough a large pot of weak, over-sweetened lemon tea, with a pinch or two of salt lands on the table along with tiny porcelain cup adorned by bluish magpies. He squinted at the birds, eyes unreadable, but he picked the cup up with a thank you and a lovely smile. It looks ridiculous in his hands, like she just handed him a doll's tea service, but he held it with gentleness of someone who knew precious things when he saw them.

Little girl, who hid in John's arms the moment she realized, that there was a stranger sitting in Mrs H. kitchen lightly nibbling on the offered treat holding it through the paper towel, peeked up from under light long eyelashes when Sherlock kissed the top of her head.

"Want to say hallo, Little Bee?" Her face scrunched into something that John called 'Thinking Deep Thoughts' expression and then she squirmed like a slippery eel, lion slippers hitting the ground. Harry watched her making her way to the table and then stand on tippy toes, hand already searching for something, and he needn't to guess what it could be. His hand was already there the moment she grabbed the handle of sugarbowl, gently prying child fingers and sneakily passing a biscuit right where she could see it.

"Hewo!" She exclaimed suddenly, startling Harry. He never was close to any baby and didn't quite expect that they could talk while still being this small. "Pwfafy".

He looked at her with confusion, and before he realized, she was already trying to climb on his lap. Rosy mouth clamped on the biscuit, leaving crumbs all over his jeans. He tugged her gently, helping her stand and then cringed when soggy dirty hand went straight up, patting and tugging on sweaty, dust filled hair. Well, she couldn't exactly make it worse…except maybe by putting there a bubble gum. Harry erased that thought before it truly formed, cringing inwardly.

She was tiny. Even standing on the chair, feet a little bit too close to certain parts of his anatomy for his continued sanity, she looked like a bird. Fragile baby that was so, so easy to hurt. His hands spanned over her back felt too large, too brutish. Merlin, but he was absolutely unequipped to handle this, give him a Dark Lord any day over this.

"Dada! Pwfafy hew!" She squealed into his ear, leaving remains of murdered pastry all over his clothes. John came over, his eyes strangely soft when he glanced at Harry over his daughter's head, like he did something extraordinary to earn it, and then gently pried that steely grip from the black mane, his hand resting over Harry's for a heartbeat, and then he squeezed it lightly, taking little girl from his arms.

"Yes, it is very fluffy, but we musn't touch without permission, yes?" Girl looked mutinous. John took what was left of the squashed baked goods, cleaning her hands off and nipping on her fingers till she giggled and smacked him in the face, by waving her hands a bit too enthusiastically. "What do we say? Catherine, what do we say when we are sorry?"

"Sowy, Pwfafy." Well, Harry had worse as long as nicknames went. He could live with 'Fluffy'. The second. Esquire.

"Are you okay?" Harry nodded, smiled softly, his fingers wiggling at the girl, and every time she saw it, she would make a snorting sound and hide in her father's neck to resurface a moment later.

Sherlock, sipping on iced tea from stripped cup snuck behind John and placed smacking kiss on Kitty's forehead. He grumbled, whatever he said made John smile and look at him with the same expression Harry saw on Molly Weasley when her husband mentioned anything muggle, and put the cup on the counter, brushing his girl's strangely curly blond hair back, fixing the messy ponytail with a patience of someone who done this hundred times before.

They heard the main door opening and closing.

"We are here!" Lestrade walked in a moment later, greeted with a cool drink and a joyful 'Taddy!' Before being handed two and half year old and sat down at the table. "Come up in fifteen minutes or so. Mrs Hudson?"

John was already tugging baffled Harry from his chair and waving at Kitty, who was far to busy chatting up Greg to even see her dad leaving. He didn't seem to be upset, just rolling his eyes, joking under his nose 'oh, the betrayal'.

"Of course dear, but get her before noon, I have plans." Sherlock kissed her wrinkly cheek before climbing seventeen steps and entering 221b.

Harry was standing in the middle of the room, all his earthly possessions at his feet, staring at the bison's head with half of his mouth twitching up like he was too tired to smile all the way. He was brushing the edge of his shirt, few black cat hairs falling from yellow cotton. His glasses were gone, and Sherlock didn't know how a child who had 'lived through hell' written all over himself had still found enough trust to let them come this close, while he was left vulnerable. The room itself was chaos, living with a toddler meant that things tended to spread in all directions with no predictable pattern and sometimes disappear altogether with no trace, only to be found months later in the last place anybody would expect. And it's not like he and John were really the most orderly people, both preferring somewhat organized chaos. Sherlock made a mental note to get rid of the ham sandwich drying slowly on the windowsill, least it gets munched on when nobody is paying attention.

"Lestrade will be here in a few, but you have the time to take quick shower and John can look you over."

"I'm _fine_." Said boy with a stubborn tilt to his chin. Problem was, Sherlock knew that he wasn't even close to fine. Functioning? Yes. He had little doubt that if pressed, this young man would bite his way through disaster and come back up bleeding but breathing on the other side. He met people like that. With so much strength that they may turn brittle when faced with their own nightmares after danger passes. Mistaking scars for growth, when it was living with them, accepting them, that was the hardest work. Which means, that he needs to try to teach, what he learned only quite recently if he had any hopes of reaching the boy before he collapses into himself.

"I was fine, too, when I came back from Serbia." Green startled eyes fallowed him, when Sherlock came closer, two fingers hooking under strap of the backpack as he steered the boy toward bathroom, hearing John walking around in their room. "I was so fine that I fooled everyone. For a while. Even myself. It was all fine. Every shadow in the house looked like a place someone might hide in. Child from across the street kicked a ball a little too hard, broke a window, I had a knife in my hand and could not remember how I got from my room to the kitchen. I walked to shops, talked with my friends, solved cases even and then I would sit down feeling every scar hurting, long after they healed. After not sleeping, barely eating, disregarding any and all wounds and jumping at every shadow, I very nearly died. I did die. Ironically enough, a bullet in my heart was what made me wake up and start to search for some help. Harry,…"

Sherlock turned around, his hand coming with a spare toothbrush and the next words died on his lips. Harry was crying. So quietly, that there was barely any sound at all, but with eyes squeezed tightly and arms wrapped around his middle like they were the only thing that kept him together. It seemed that Harry did in fact was acutely aware, that he was not fine at all.

Sherlock did, what he wished someone did for him all those years ago, when he was skulking around like a wounded animal, relying only on his pride and intelligence to survive, when not an ounce of kindness was to be found anywhere he went. He gathered the trembling boy, slowly, intently, tucking him under his chin, wrapping his long arms around that starved body and letting the child break apart at the seams and howl in his chest like a banshee. Great heaving sobs shook that bony frame, wild keening barely muted by man's shoulder. Fingers latched convulsively on Sherlock's shirt on his chest and side, and then one hand slipped and went to Harry's mouth to muffle his cries.

It was horrible sound of a wounded animal, that made John lean on the other side of the door, hands full of towels and linen sleeveless shirt found in the depths of their wardrobe, and blink off tears that came out of nowhere. Nobody had a right to sound like that, least of all wide eyed boy, who few minutes before was smiling with genuine confused affection at a toddler he'd just met. Who looked strangely delighted at the head mounted on the wall and quipping 'it adds character' at the headphones. Who blinked at him with soft, trusting eyes, when John slipped the glasses off his face and put them in Harry's pocket.

He wobbled in a place, trying to get a grip on himself and will his knees to stop giving up on him. He straightened up, opened the door as unobtrusively as he could and froze. Sherlock's face was wet from tears, slightly unseeing and John would stake his medical license over the, fact that his partner was now somewhere in his teen years, reliving years upon years of petty cruelty, that people heaped on him when he spun around confused and hurt and with no explanation in sight. Harry was curled close, the wails turning into helpless sobs, trying to mold himself into Sherlock's very being, starved for human contact. They were swaying in place, fingers clutching at each other, like letting go would be admitting defeat. John threw his bundle to the side and carefully slid his hand over child's wild hair, while his other wrapped itself around his partners waist, letting both of them know that they are not alone anymore. Sherlock moved closer, his face tight with abject misery, meeting his eyes while blinking off tears.

Dear god, what a mess.

* * *

Lestrade pretended to not to see the red eyes on all three, pretended that he never heard anything, no matter how much the sounds carries in this funny old house.

He might not do subtle well, but this? This he could do.

Harry didn't sit in The Chair. Instead, he was curled in the tiniest possible ball on the couch, sitting with scarred and bruised arms wrapped around his legs. He smelled like he bathed in aloe and arnica, plasters scattered all over his body, small puncture wound in a crook of his arm where John took blood sample. He had folded into himself like an origami crane, staring witlessly with eyes red rimmed and wide and still wet, at a glass of apple juice dangling from his fingers, swirling a lone ice cube around. He looked like he went for ten rounds with professional boxer and lost.

Sherlock was nursing cup of tea, sitting on the other side of the couch. His arms curled inward didn't quite hid the wet patch that clinged to his skin, nor how much his shirt looked like it got mangled by a feral beast. He looked lost in thought and rarely more uninterested in the case, then just now. Only his fingers moved, like he was playing a song against his thigh, and knowing him, he probably was.

John, in typical johnlike fashion when dealing with emotions, that can't be walked off or screamed about before confronting them in the safety of his own mind, preferably in peace and quiet, made himself busy. His breathing too controlled, snaps of the knife going through poor abused cucumber too even and Greg realized that whatever's happened affected all of them. From the tight pinched look on Sherlock's face to John's shoulders that went just a bit too high and the completely wiped out of any expression Harry's face, the only conclusion came, that whatever it was, it left them apart and that's the last thing they needed.

But for all the tea in England he could not figure out a way to bring the subject up, so instead he asks.

"What is your pronoun?" Harry blinked like he was woken from the deep sleep. He cleared his throat and then when it didn't work, took a sip from the high glass.

"I prefer _Your Majesty_." His voice barely a croak and smile falling before it formed, but it was more then Greg expected. "Why are you asking?"

"He assumed that you are trans. It's the earrings, I think." Explained Sherlock, tipping over and then lightly tugging on Harry's ankles, to make him straighten out his legs. Being all curled up was hardly good position for somebody in his state. Harry touched his ear, taking of small faux pearl earring, doing the same on the other side, putting them on the table, massaging sore earlobes. He forgot they were there. For something that was giving him grief for hours yesterday it was remarkably easy to just ignore them once the initial pain was gone. He blinks when something lands on his lap. It's a large, fluffy brown moose mascot, as long as his forearm. He looks at it, two fingertips caressing soft plush, warring with himself over whatever or not he should. He scoffs at his own indecision, and finely just picks the toy and hugs it, hiding his face in impressive rack.

They've already seen him at his worst and there was still no pity in their eyes and Harry is so tired of always being the one who carry on the show. There was no enemy to fight. No battle to win. Nobody to protect. Here, nobody knows him and still they were nothing but kind to a howling brat who couldn't keep it together. He is, for once, not a hero of his own story.

Part of the sofa dips down and there are fingers in his hair, short and blunt and it's stupid that his body already can recognize to whom they belong to, relaxing swiftly. It takes him barely a second to understand, when a small strand is parted from the rest that John is brushing his hair. His wet, never managed hair that stands up even when it's dirty and oily and which was never really brushed by anyone since his aunt teared out at his roots and then finely shaved his head, leaving his hair chopped and uneven.

He is sniffling again and he hates it, he hates that those people go around, doing those stupidly right things with little thought, like they weren't breaking all those precariously constructed walls, digging under fundamentals. Where the hell they have been years ago? He would have paid money for just few minutes of this kindness when he was younger.

He feels Sherlock put his legs over his lap, hand laying limply just below the hem of borrowed track pants. They say nothing. Wait on him with no signs of irritation or anger. And he…

He just wants to go to bed.

He wants to wake up next year, where everything is okay and resolved itself without him. Where his fame is old news and there are no unreasonable expectations that are never spoken of but he would be pressed to met them non the less. No disappointment when he doesn't perform or doesn't know thing,s that he has no business of knowing. No Dursley's. In the wildest of dreams a tiny flat with two rooms and big light kitchen where there are always three meals a day and his friends basking in the sun of large windows. Basil and thyme and mint in small ceramic pots. Sirius sleeping on the couch, leaving fur on the pillows. Free to walk whatever he wants, just like his godson.

Was it too much?

Was it being selfish? Ungrateful? He was so tired of being kept like a dog in a kennel, waiting every year to be saved, like he couldn't just drop his so called family like a hot potato and let them go whatever the hell they wanted. Good luck and good riddance. It's not like they paid for his school, he didn't even get any new clothes since he was eleven, and all the labor done from the time he was little boy, should have been more then enough to pay for any food he ever consumed under their inhospitable roof. They were more then happy to wave him goodbye, Harry was even happier to be gone, so what was the point of coming back every year? He had friends, good friends, enough money to never become a strain on their families budget, and he would be welcome with no questions asked. He can feed himself, knows how to pay bills and do laundry. He can keep garden. Paint the house, too. Even fix a thing or two, no problem. Still, he was send back, told to 'keep his nose clean' like going out on a short trip to market was synonymous of attracting trouble. It was unfair. Unfair to rate his happiness as just below inconvenience. About as high as stepping on half chewed gum. He was a person not a newspaper, that one can throw out once they are done with it. A person, god damn it.

Harry felt his body pulsing with pain, many pinpricks singing in one tune and those stupid tears didn't want to stop, headache crawling and nestling itself behind his eyes made him want to punch something, but instead he just cried harder.

It was like a dam burst, years of quietly swallowing all his hurts now made him choke on them. He knew pain in the intimate way, but this, this was always pushed back, squashed in some part of mind that all unwanted things went to and now it clawed its way out and there was no way to smother the fire that burned in his chest, no potion or bandage, nothing that would take away those hateful feeling.

He didn't know how those men will be able to treat him seriously. Someone died, Gods damn it, and there he is, being complete mess held together with tape, toothpicks and good intentions. Completely useless sniveling slug, wasting their time like he had any right...

"Stop right there, whatever you are thinking right now, stop." He flinches at the rather sharp tone, afraid to look up, stifling his cries. But nothing happens. Nobody is screaming, hand on his leg is squeezing just that little tighter but it hurts not one bit. It's grounding, gentle, safe. He realizes that his hair is in a simple ponytail and that John was now sitting fully on the sofa's arm just behind him, his warm body like a wall at his back.

He counts to ten. And when it doesn't work he counts some more before he is calm enough to rise his eyes. The howl in his head is quieter, leaving him with tight feeling trapped under his breastbone and he massages it absentmindedly. Everything is blurry. A pack of tissues finds itself to his hand and he uses half of it before he feels he is able to talk normally.

"Sorry." His voice a croak, nervous fingers tearing the last tissue into tiny confetti, creating a pile on his lap. He tried to give up the slightly worse for wear moose back, only for John to put it back in the crook of his arm.

"Harry," Sherlock admonished, long fingers squeezing his ankle." We need to teach you the importance of not apologizing for other people bullshit."

Harry chokes out a laugh that's closer to sob, but he shakes his head and grit his teeth, straightening up. He looks like he is slipping in a role, dressing up in new skin that fits him to a t.

"Do you think you can tell us what happened?" Asked mildly Greg, watching Harry swallow painfully twice, before finely nodding, getting out his phone, fingers sliding on the touchscreen. Lestrade gets out recorder and the boy looks up in askance. "It will not be a part of official paperwork, we will keep you out of it as much as we are able."

Harry takes a deeper breath, rolls his shoulders and press on. He was always at his best when he was thrown into the deep end of things, so he does what he does the best. Carry on.

"It started, when I booked a room at the Old Oak Tree Inn...


	6. Chapter 6

It was not exactly the way Harry envisioned his day going, but he honestly couldn't say that he was surprised. It was hard to be surprised when things always happened to you and you started to expect upcoming catastrophe with a bit of an eye-roll and pointed look at the clock. Fate liked to meddle with him, string him up to have some fun at his expanse and then leave him hanging upside down and he started to think, that this is going to be a pattern and the only thing to do, was to accept his lot in life. And maybe piss off some people as he goes, since he would end one way or another six feet deep in horseshit, so why not make the best of it.

It was hot. No, that was like saying that ocean held more water then a raindrop. That listening to 'Pink Fluffy Unicorns Dancing On Rainbows' for twenty four hours is mildly irritating. Finely, that Harry was average, well adjusted teenager coming from good home and with loving and supportive family. It was a lie, everything was a lie. The only truth was, that Harry would welcome the blessedly short Avada in the back if that meant, that he would stop feeling like he kissed swinging shovel. The air was so dry and overheated that it was waving, moving, trembling making him blink too many times to get rid of the light imprinted inside his eyeballs. He was a ball of sweaty mess, trapped in a white floral dress that was mite too short, now that he thought about it, and some sort of flip flops on high heel, that he won't even pretend to know the name of. He regretted not putting something between his skin and two balloons filled with starch and flour mixed with water, because it was torture on the sparse hair on his chest and they keep bouncing in that godawful bra, because of how sweaty he ended up only minutes after leaving house.

But yeah, it worked.

He is out and nobody made a peep when he left.

Maybe it's too late to wonder if he could get away with less dramatic measures, as it's still the weirdest feeling in the world to have legs this smooth. Nice, but weird. He probably would have succeed with just a hat and sunglasses, come to think of it.

He hit the breaks on the bike, and unstrapping the helmet from his head, stood it up next to bus stop as he appraised himself in the clear plexiglas.

Definite overkill.

"Nice shoes." He blinked against harsh light, only to realize, that when he was gaping at his own butt like he expected to find a bike saddle still attached, there was young short woman in the most radiant yellow t-shirt he ever encountered (why it had googly eye?!), looking at him from the other side of the glass with a sort of half smirk. Great Merlin. "Not really a biking material, though."

He shook his head, feeling some of his hair escape the plait, that was put there with extreme prejudice and coated with as much of hair spray as his lungs could handle. Not that it made much difference. He sat down on the bench next to her, letting himself take a moment to rest and drink.

"Fashion hurts." He answered after a moment, trying to smile without looking like a demented nervous prison escapee. It must have worked, because what fallowed was the most bizarre experience in his life thus far, which...said a lot.

The girl, Loretta, was cute, with button nose and strawberry blond short hair that constantly got in her eyes and bubbly sort of personality that had him smiling before he knew it, chasing away the cold feeling that slept in his chest for far too long with just few minutes of playful banter. She insisted at being called Lo, threw a pack of cherry gum at his head and called his glasses the worst abomination since 'Catwoman' was made (as if Harry knew what it was). And either she didn't really notice that Harry was a guy packed in his Aunt's remade clothes, with ears still sore from being pierced by a needle over a bathroom sink, or she didn't exactly care one way or another, when he introduced himself as Hilda.

Harry had no idea how they got from proclaiming heels as devices of torture designed by patriarchy (he is going to nail those heels to a board and mount them on the wall like a roadkill) to laughing about absurdity of platypus existence and cooing over raccoon washing marshmallows while peering at her smartphone, before her bus arrived. What he realized was that the first time he actually, quite obviously, undeniably flirted with a girl he was in full drag. And if that didn't sum up how ridiculous his life was, nothing ever will. It would have been nice to knew he was flirting to begin with, but no, of course not. That's why he only flailed for a moment when she leaned over and with a rakish grin, that spoke of the more naughty intentions, whispered straight to his ear that he can find her on tumblr, before sweetly kissing his cheek just that tad too close to his lips and waving goodbye, but not before calling him pretty babe. Pretty. Babe. Circe, he was not the only one who had sight problems.

He wouldn't even try to deny, that he set there blushing like an idiot for a longer while, feeling strangely warm inside. Which proves once and for all, that even the smallest bits of kindness can heal a crack or two. He took a breath, much deeper and lighter then any other in nearly a month, before getting to his feet and fixing his dress. Casually disregarding the wolf whistle and some older lady disapproving glare at the lacking length, or maybe out of pure jealousy about how great his legs looked in this light, he put on the helmet.

What the heck was tumblr, anyway?

Harry just wrote it down along with the strange sounding nickname for later. He didn't really liked the feeling, that he might have led her into believing he was someone else. He was good at deception. It didn't mean that he was feeling good about hoodwinking people who never did him any wrong. Right now there was no sense in overthinking.

Except, of course he was. Overthinking was a special talent of his, after all.

Because quarter of an hour was more then enough for a shift in perspective. He had never spend any significant time talking with anyone his age outside his closest friends. And the only girl he truly knew was Hermione, and while she was his best friend, the only time he had ever seen her as a…as a woman, was the ball. And that was disaster start to finish, never to be repeated again. It was a downer to realize, that he was a bit of a shithead and that Parvati deserved better then his grouchy self, stupidly pinning after Cho (and maybe her dance partner? A bit? Possibly?Who was he kidding...), instead of dancing with the girl he invited.

That's what you get, when you go around treating people like collective not individuals.

So, just in case, he wrote that too. He owed few apologies for being such a pillock, and a gift wouldn't be amiss. There was that shell bracelet, he remembered, pinkish and with opalescent gleam, that he found one day inside his locker along with a fresh daisy. Nobody admitted to loosing it, so at the end of the day he tied it around his ankle and kept it hidden for years. Problem was, it was still at Dursleys...

Why was everything such a drama?

The rest of the day didn't improve his mood. It went downhill faster then a stubborn snitch, when he was clambering from the roadside, clutching at his hip and trying hard not to break down, when he saw all his food disappearing under cars wheels. The only blessing was that his backpack was still firmly attached to his back and that, except few nicks, the bike was whole. Both of his legs were scratched, blood itching as it went all the way down to his heels, drying fast in the burning sun. He still had few miles to go.

Just fucking wonderful.

And he needed to pee somewhat fierce.

* * *

"How late was that?"

"Just after five, I think? I found Shell, some nice lady dug out from her bag whole package of Spider-man plasters, that her nephew favored when she found me in the ladies bathroom bleeding all over the place. I spend just over half an hour patching myself up. The same lady bought me hot dog and soda, left them with the cashier and was long gone before I sorted myself out. Do you think I have a chance at finding her? I want to say thank you." Asked Harry earnestly, polishing cubed fruit and cucumber from the plate placed on his lap. The only mark that he was ever upset was the puffiness of his eyes, otherwise he put himself together, bouncing back like everything was a minor inconvenience.

John started to think that maybe it was. Maybe he was used to trampling all over his feelings and letting them sleep just under his skin, collected like an army of angry wasps, but rarely released.

If he decided to leave Hounslow and carry on to Greater London or outside of the city and never called police, they wouldn't have been able to find him. Much less find the body before it turned into sack of fluids half eaten by the rats and insects. He probably had very small budget but Tesco Express was just few minutes either way. He obviously had enough to pay for hotel room and two meals a day were included, but for some reason he ended up on the street. There was enough battery on his phone to last another day, he had no need for public transport and sported enough determination to carve himself a place wherever he went. He could have been gone the first thing in the morning, but... But he put it on hold out of sense of justice, even knowing that more bureaucratic policeman would drag him through Social Services and straight where he came from or arrest him for trespassing.

The point was…he could have been gone. Bruised, hurt and alone, with no roof over head and scrap of food or safe place to sleep. Storm is supposed to hit Britain in three days, what would happen should he be there? And if he would catch cold? John met homeless people…but they were homeless for some time, some of them even didn't want homes, some scoffed at shelters that held too many rules, for others it was institution, since they lived better remaining on the streets, saving the money they earned for other things then hotel rooms, building for better future. Harry was the first person he had ever met, that purposely left his home prepared to live on the run, but was plucked right out of that life before it began, and with Harry's question came quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, they would be able to keep him out of it for a bit longer.

"We can try once this is over, if it's truly something you want to do?" Questioned Sherlock, his gaze puzzled when he noticed John nodding frantically behind boy's back. Harry nodded curtly. His face doing again that half smile, that they already recognized as genuine happiness. It was tiny thing, resting in the corner of his mouth, gentle and secret, leaving a dimple in his cheek, lighting his eyes from within. It made him look inexplicably taller, bigger, stronger, even when he hadn't moved at all and if to treat the smiles like weapons, this one would win many fights.

"It's the right thing to do." He stated with absolute certainty, his jaw jutting proudly. "She was kind to me, it does cost me nothing but some time to do the same."

Lestrade thought about his two teenagers, busy chasing skirts and eating pizza on every weekend with a bunch of friends. They were good kids, but then, it's easy to be good when you aren't challenged or nothing bad ever happens to you. The worst in their life was divorce of their parents and as much as he and his wife didn't get along, there was never a question of how the kids figured out in this. They kept them away from any and all drama they could and never played the guilt game with them around. Children were not a commodity and should not be treated like goods that could be bargained with.

But he wondered, just briefly, if his kids would do the same thing as Harry. Go look for a stranger who done them kindness or just take it like it was their due. He honestly couldn't answer.

"I will find her for you." Harry's smile grew brighter as he whispered 'thank you', like Sherlock has done him a great service. "So, what happened once you got to the inn?"

Harry took a deep breath, they could nearly see him counting backwards as he glared at the piece of banana held between his fingers. This time Sherlock knew that it was not just trick of light. Boy's hair stood up, like struck by electricity current, something that wasn't missed by the neither John nor Lestrade. The strange sort of pressure filled the air and then stopped and disappeared suddenly with no proof that it even happened. Harry didn't notice. He slouched in his set, gritting his teeth and his next words held a muted kind of growl.

"The owner was nice enough, that's it, till I gave her my ID. She assumed the same as DI Lestrade, only she was less gracious about it." Harry looked down and chewed savagely, angry and hurt in equal parts. He glared spitefully at the blue nail polish, that he spend ages mastering putting on, like it was the source of all his problems. He remembered how hard it was at beginning, with crusty blobs and smeared fingers, before he learned to do each finger with three fine strokes. He liked those nails. There was nothing fucking wrong with those nails. And there was nothing wrong with the dress with large poppy flowers, except that it was mite too short and just not something he would like to repeat without good reason. But something must have been wrong with people, if a sight of a boy in dress causes more attention and spite then the sight of neo-nazi in a hotel lobby, throwing death treats like it was Halloween. "Words were said, accusations were made, insults were thrown, so was the punch," Harry smiled sharply, his fingers skimming over knuckles, remembering the shape of a jaw they landed on," and I was less then politely asked to leave, as the owner had the right to refuse service. So she did. It left me on the street, after nearly an hour of pointless discussion, without refund of the twenty percent I already paid, broken nail and no idea what to do with myself. "

John made a mental note to sick Sherlock at said horrible women. And he will not feel guilty either. Ha!

"Punch?" Inquired Lestrade, making Harry look at him and flex his fingers and while his expression somewhat sheepish, his eyes were little too hard for any regret .

"I didn't appreciate her husband's attitude, or his handsy approach to my person and older gentleman who tried o help. Poor dear wasn't nearly as hard as his running mouth seemed to suggest. Toppled like a tree. His stepson cheered me on and apologized after all that mess, but I'm afraid he had rather got himself in trouble because of that. You will be checking that place?" He received three nods." Check on him? Tall, around seventeen, brown short hair shaved on the sides, gangly but athletic, plays basketball, handsome, too. His stepfather looked like he rather didn't like people disagreeing with him and had no trouble trying to cuff a stranger and call a guest 'whiny bitch'. Please?"

They didn't need a lot of convincing. Abused children often knew exactly where to look for to find people like them. If Harry thought, that there might be something fishy going on, it would take only a moment to check if it's true. Lestrade just made a note and then he asked.

"Where did you get from there?"

"It took some time wandering about, I first went along the river, but then I got a bad feeling in my gut, sat on the bike and was gone from that place as fast as I could. Can't exactly say that it done me some good, but… that place made me scared. Like someone was looking at me, waiting, like I was hunted… I didn't see anyone, but it made my skin crawl."

Lestrade stopped him, turning off recorder for a moment. Harry wasn't scared of the body, of the grown man while he was dressed in heels and not at his best, of going alone with only himself to count on. He didn't strike him as a person who startled easily or who would just run at the sight of the danger. Much more as a person who would go in, guns blazing backing fear into corner and saying 'stay here I have things to do'. But now, in a safety of 221B, Harry looks uneasy at the very thought, his fingers twitched at his side like he was trying to search for a weapon, his hackles raised as his skin broke in goosebumps. There was no question of laying or embellishing, only genuine belief that there was something off. He hums under his breath, wondering if child's gut feeling was enough of a motivation to go and look for trouble. It might be tied together with this case…it might not. It might be nothing at all but an overstressed boy, getting progressively more scared at the thought of no shelter after dark. For now, he was the only common denominator.

Can he afford dismissing it? Well, not before he hears the rest of the story.

"So, the crack house? How'd you found it?

"Well, it's not exactly inconspicuous building. And it's never hard to find bolthole like that, you just have to go to place that people go out of their way to try to avoid. For a good reason."

* * *

Here goes nothing.

Harry crossed the threshold of the house, barely keeping his last meal in, when it was trying to climb all the way up and see the light of the day in the bid of freedom. He had an urge to just leave right this second, climb on some tree, bike be damned and sleep tied to the branch, like he used to, when he was locked out of house and his usual hideout was occupied by less then savory sort.

The fear that chased him from The Common's bank was fading, like whatever made his heart hammer against his ribs choose to not chase him here. Harry doubted that it was anything on the 'human' side. Still, he pressed on, he wasn't sorted in Gryffindor for nothing.

It was surprisingly dark inside. Under the wall rested old moldy sofa with indistinguishable pattern and next to it a row of dirty mattresses. Empty. Abandoned? Still, that might be a problem. There was no other sound in whole house bar his breathing and the turning wheels of the bike as he stepped farther in. To his left wooden staircase led to first floor, most of the steps looked unsteady, or gone altogether, the railing on the other hand...Cast iron. Sturdy. Easy to climb. Perfect. He opened the terrace door to take a look at the backyard and after short scouting mission, hid the bike in the shed, even if it took some extra energy to lead it through the weeds that caught on the pedals.

He returned moment later, moving quietly, searching for anything that might be useful and finding nothing of the sort. Mildly disappointed, he climbed up, put his things it in the least dirty- smelly- moldy spot he could find and covered the floor first with his foil raincoat and then blanket, trying to not think about anything more then just surviving the night. Worry gnawed at his gut, he swallowed heavily and climbing on his tiptoes he opened the upper row of windows from the garden side.

 _Well, dumbass, you have what you wanted, freedom at its finest._

Harry did the sensible thing and told himself to shut up. He changed quickly, bundled up dress landed in the bag, feet freed from the confines of high heels thanked him by revealing reddened skin. He paid them with putting on aloe vera and soft massage after standing on tiptoes and curling his toes couple times and afterward putting on a pair of thin socks. The funny feeling, like the shoes were still on, remained for some time, dull ache that went from the balls of his feet to heels and ankles and calves reduced slightly by the fingers pressing deeper into his skin. He sighed deeply, for once glad for the silence, especially after the horrendous traffic, that left him with an aftertaste of dust and car exhaust. It was quite a surprise to find out, that for all the problems, he actually somewhat enjoyed himself. It was good to finely be doing something, even when his stomach felt tight, he felt... alive. Like he woke up from a long sleep, still tired, still somewhat sluggish and not all there, but better all the same.

With careful move he unhooked the bra, looking crossly at the marks it left and with a quiet promise to burn it on the pyre, he threw it into the bag, blue balloons stashed in one sock fallowed. He checked the bandage on his arm, but only if it was still tight, (he had only one more clean one) Spider-man plasters, wonder of wonders, held. His hip was the worst, it pulsed gently, and it felt too warm and swollen when he put on arnica cream and patched it up few hours before. He took two pills of ibuprofen, for once thankful, that his Aunt liked to swallow pills like they were candies, mostly because it meant that box she kept meds in could make a doctor double take. She wouldn't think twice should some of its contents disappear.

He stood up and gently rolled his shoulders, stretching, knowing better then just drop down on his improvised bed when he was sore and still wound up. He made that mistake after his first training with Wood and woke up stiff like an upper lip of an old aristocrat. And there was no laughing Angelina who would push a potion in his hand, messing his hair on the way to scream at her Captain for his idiocy.

It wasn't that bad, really. There was no sign of people involvement upstairs, no abandoned used needless or plastic packets, no shoe marks bar his own. A few cat pawprints were freshly pressed in the dusty floor, beginning suddenly and ending nowhere. He dragged his backpack closer and hid his holly wand deep under his clothes, pulling out a purse and putting a single sickle on the windowsill. That explained some things. When he finely lay down, the ground was cool which, right now, counted as a plus. Air remained dusty but far fresher, what little wind there was turned out to be enough to get rid of the smell that made him dry heave. He took out his quidditch jersey, the only hoodie that was thick enough to replace the lack of jacket, and balled it up to make a pillow, pushing his nose in the red and black-blue fabric. Even house elves couldn't make it loose that lingering aroma of cedar broom polish and faint traces of leather, as it was usually where he hid his three pairs of gloves.

It brought a wave of nostalgia that was promptly stopped by the hoot and a beak clacking on wooden frame, when Hedwig slipped through the small space and landed near his head in a flutter of white wings.

Thank Merlin for small graces.

He fell asleep with a feel of overly concerned owl preening his hair, having learned long ago to hoard every minute of rest...and woke up when the crash of shutting door filled the still air. Hedwig, one of her clawed foot firmly wrapped around mouse, or what looked like one, in a flurry of feathers landed on Harry's arm. He winced at the sharpness of her talons, when she leaned to one side and swallowed her prey.

There were voices downstairs. Two men. Loud thump and quiet moan, fallowed by strangled ' _Bitte_ ' and a string of coughed out words that Harry couldn't make head or heels off. Heart fluttering wildly in his chest like a restless bird he rolled on the concrete floor and in a semi-darkness slid closer to the stairs.

"You have made someone very angry, Mr Cowell. And she is not well versed in mercy. Or forgiveness. But...Ariadne wishes to give you a chance. Sit, night is young and I have a lesson to teach. There,there, good boy."

Harry lay on the cold ground, dust filling his nose and with wide eyes he raised his head to look at Hedwig like he wanted to make sure he heard it right.

Oh dear Merlin.

With a shaky breath he crawled back, took his phone, send a message and prepared for a long and stressful night.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Still not owning anything.

* * *

6 of _June_

 **The Switch**

 _Some time ago we were called at unearthly hour to the body of the late Adrien Cowell. What looked to be a quite simple case, in space of few hours turned to the kind of drama that changed more then one life. For better or worse._

 _It was obvious right from the start that Mr. Cowell had drowned. Not right away. And he was…helped…along the way._

 _Less then four hours later on the same day another body was found. Packed up tightly in the simple travel trunk in the crowded Heathrow Airport._

 _Two questionable deaths, in a space of hours in city as big as London, are not as rare as one would wish, but it's not every day you find two nearly identical looking men killed in vastly different ways and not even related to each other._

 _In the strangest twist of circumstances both of those men happened to be the members of the same golf club. Golden gleaming cards found in their pockets, but once compared…they both happen to carry the same name._

 _It was only by the grace of quick-witted witness and Sherlock's knowledge of forgery we realized within moments, that between those two victims, the man who lost his life to The Common was not the person his ID said he was. And who he was? Now that's proved to be a mystery. The only thing we knew, was a name…_

 _It went like this._

 _Adrien Cowell had a debt, and not a one that could be paid off by honest work. His wife's fortune kept slowly dwindling as he drained it with loopholes found in marriage contract,. First separation then divorce papers signed by said lady disappearing without trace. Few gentlemen politely knocking at the door as deals made with a word of honor, weren't honored at all, while on Mr Cowell's desk all checks were signed, all debts paid, paperwork that would pass the scrutiny of a lesser mind. The sum of those inconsistencies lead us to the whispers of mysterious person known as Ariadna. A name already known, but it took a thorough search of the shady parts of London to find what it represented. What we learned could fill a book and she probably knew stories that would fill few more, but the gist of it was, that a woman behind the name started out as a crook…and ended up becoming a very proficient and dangerous jack of all trades._

 _Mr. Cowell happen to ask for her tricks one time too many._

 _Trying to avoid the trouble, he went to Germany, where, quite by accident a man known as Johann Schneider stumbled upon him in Hannover and decided that he was the ticket to safe passage to London. Adrian felt safe, Ariadna's hands didn't reach that far and beginning new life had a great appeal to him. He didn't expect that his life might hold appeal to a criminal who possessed eerily similar features._

 _Johann made his living as an art thief. One that has enough of a talent to not only recognize genuine article, but also forge a thing or two with some skill. With just a bit of brown hair dye and by stealing the wallet for few hours, he soon became Adrien's doppelganger._

 _On that fateful day he found himself paying for it, dying in the abandoned house, quite by accident and with priceless art still sewed into his tweed jacket._

 _By fleeing for jolly good English soil, he left behind not only the Hannover's police, collector who was equally incensed and in tears, but also a crime partner. Partner who stumbled upon the used packet of dye, half burned page of Adrien Cowell written in heavy cursive and drew his own conclusions. He found, what he thought, Johann Shneider and killed him quite in rage about the language barrier, thinking his partner's joke went to far. After searching for his prize and not founding it anywhere in the room or on the body, he packed it into dead's own trunk and send it to London, where airport security after some consideration evacuated the civilians and then called first police, soon after a bomb disposal unit and at the end…us._

 _In the end, two men who were trying to take more then they earned, lost their lives running from problems they caused._

 _The mystery of Ariadna was reveled and her own self promptly set behind bars. Her henchmen joined her soon after._

 _Greedy crime partner found himself admiring artwork in his cell._

 _And one young widow will soon enough enjoy spending the rest of her family wealth, trying to find happiness outside of England borders. And we wish her all the luck in the world._

( _218_ ) Comments

 _As always you avoided writing everything of note, John._

Sherlock Holmes

 _I write it as I remember it._

John Watson

 _Then you remember it wrong._

Sherlock Holmes

 _All this had happened?_

John Watson

 _Yes, but you left out every important asdhjhkhff.#/ &^#^*?**?Y_: $ _

Sherlock Holmes

 _Kitty agrees with me._

John Watson

 _That's the Vine material._

Dame Latif

 _that sounds fake but okay_

Joy

 _You forgot to mention that JS died because henchmen were idiots not because he was supposed to be killed. Saying it's accident it's like saying he tripped and hit his head. You can't miss things like that._

H-Jay

 _See? H-Jay agrees with me._

Sherlock Holmes

 _He would._

John Watson

 _who this?_

C Melas

 _Hey, who is the new guy?_

Jacob Sowersby

 _I'm shook_

Harry Watson

 _Hi, shook, I'm dad._

H-Jay

 _Why are you always this cheeky?_

John Watson

 _Not always, I suppose I have to sleep sometime._

H-Jay

 _Dear god…_

Sherlock Holmes

 _The number you are trying to reach…_

YourGodIsHere

 _This entry is missing everything of value_

Theimprobableone

 _Like your life. You must feel right at home then._

H-Jay

 _Hurricane dear if you are finished with roasting I'm baking sweet buns drop by on your way?_

Mrs Hudson

 _ETA 15 minutes. Can we do lemon icing with hazelnuts?_

H-Jay

Show _less_

Show _more comments_

* * *

"I was looking for you everywhere," exclaimed jovially Sirius at the sight of Remus nursing a cup of what looked like tea, but going from the smell, tea was the last ingredient. His friend was known to practice the fine art of potion making. "I hadn't seen hide nor hair of you since this morning. Are you hiding?"

"Funny that, I was here the whole time." Remus looked at his friend's half smirk and rolled his eyes. "It's the first place you searched, didn't you?"

"Might have, you can't prove anything. Now give." Remus didn't pretend to misunderstand. He leaned to the side, rummaging in the pocket of his cream-brown vest, before a large bottle of fifteen century whiskey landed on the table. Sirius clapped his hands in obvious glee. Grimmauld Place was not the kind of house where one can survive extended periods of time by staying sober. He even saw Molly throwing a shot or two of cooking sherry and looking flustered when caught at it.

He didn't envy the kids. _Poor sods_. Cleaning an old house from pixies and hand sized spiders was nobody's idea of great time, especially in the middle of the summer. Sirius remembered first war, so did pretty much everyone in the Order, and he was sure there was nowhere this high level of paranoia going around. They let themselves grow hoarse screaming at concerts, went skinny dipping in the night, coming back missing clothes and shivering as they run home over the wet cold grass. Listened to muggle songs and drank cheap wine while dancing under rainbow of colors in clubs smelling of stall sweat and cigarette smoke. Nobody tried to just close them up in the dreary house with nothing to do. Circe, even his parents didn't try to make either him or Regulus stay in the house. War was a part of life, but they didn't let it stop their fifteen, sixteen, nineteen year old selves from dinners at friends, Quidditch and everyday normal things. Times had changed, but should they ask for opinion,( and they never did) there would be no harm in letting the kids go to cinema after slapping some hair coloring potions and funky clothes or to take them for few hours to walk around some small, remote village. Let them run wild on a beach somewhere in Cornwall. Take a god damn walk on the moores full of heather flowers and fresh air. They were missing out on everything that was important while growing up and suffering from cabin fever in the depression inducing hell hole. At least Harry seemed to make the best out of it. He hoped that the child would find a way to contact them before they all grow grey with worry and collectively loose they marbles.

And dear Merlin, was he missed. For someone so young he made big waves, causing the Order to scatter all over Britain like headless chickens instead of doing something productive. Sirius was a Gryffindor by choice but he was a Black at birth, first and foremost, taught at the young age that a road to success was to 'divide and conquer'. He couldn't help but wonder if part of Voldemort's silence was just a silence of a tactician not interrupting when an enemy was making a mistake. And what a mistake it was. Instead of focusing on recruitment, training and intelligence gathering, they were running around after a boy who was gone for over a month, but safe and content to stay where he was. Alternatively, they got send to Ministry, babysitting a prophecy, a problem that could have been solved by a half an hour visit years ago, when Harry was a little tyke and didn't yet had a mental capacity to grasp what prophecy was about. Or any time after, with one medically approved Obliviate reversed when he was old enough to handle it. First day of summer vacation, even, since Harry has every right to know by now. But no, sending him to abusive family was a way to 'preserve his childhood' and giving him barely any support over the years was 'character building'. Because we wouldn't want for him to grow up arrogant and privileged, don't we? All that Sirius heard when the subject surfaced again and again was 'we don't want him to have loving family, confidence and resources'.

If Sirius could find a way, one single solution to free his own name from suspicion, to get an actual hearing from Wizengamot, there would be no power on earth that would prevent him from telling Harry everything he needed to know. Teaching every single dirty trick. Gaining all the political backing one man can handle and tearing a new one in the Dark Dork fraction. And woe anyone who would stand in his way. He didn't buy into traditionalist way of thinking nor in pureblood supremacy, but he was the head of house of Black, and they always fought to the last.

He poured himself a cup of whiskey, tipped it with tea, shaking off his dark thoughts. He smirked suddenly and pinned his friend with inquisitive glance, waiting till he took a sip from teacup.

"So, are you and Nymphadora banging?" He wasn't disappointed. Remus bent over the table, hacking like a cat, leaving a shower of absolutely vile concoction he was marinating his brain in for some hours now, on the already abused table. Sirius took a dainty sip. And then chortled at the constipated look his friend was sporting, trying to deny everything between him and spunky Auror. Sirius knew better, no, they weren't having at it, but he had eyes. Better yet, he had a nose, and a curious thing about being somewhat stuck in animagus form for so many years, was that some characteristics bled through. His senses were now better then ever, which had its upsides and downsides. One of the multiple reasons he tried to sit as far from Mundungus and Snape as it was possible, because… gah. And Snape…ah, there were times when he dreamed about putting that man in a jar, shrunken and marinated like a pickle and setting it on the fireplace with a plate stating _'Snivellus. Poisoned by biting his own tongue_ '. It would fit right in with the rest of this house aesthetic.

"No, Sirius, just…no." Of course Remus would deny everything like the lying liar who lies he is. Sirius decided it was high time to be…serious.

"She likes you." Remus visibly deflated. Aaand there it was, the overthinking.

"We aren't in kindergarten, Sirius."

"Funny you should say that, since you behave like a five year old dragging their feet, so he could go to bed five minutes later." Remus looked up at his friend's flat tone. Sirius' mouth was pulled in tight line, grey eyes unusually unreadable as they made holes in his head. "You are hurting her."

Remus crumpled, leaning forward with his head tightly held in his hands, brown hair sticking up at strange angles between whitening fingers. His face was completely pale beside the two red splotches on his cheeks, like between one moment and the next he caught Dragon Pox and had only days to live. Sirius somewhat claimed the tittle of their group drama queen, but let it never be said that he could not be yet dethroned by this resident diva. Remus always was the ball of angst, but in the last few weeks he climbed up on that scale and was hitting the roof.

"I am sorry, Sirius, I know that it's not right…I will make sure that she wouldn't see me again after the mission. I will go to Quebec, there are some werewolves there that communicate with their wolves through yoga and veganism…" Sirius tuned out the rest of the rant, suddenly intimately aware of how much shit he put their friends through when he got the same way Moony was now. Merlin, it was an eye opener.

"Stop it. God, Moony, you are a world class idiot. No, don't talk. Do you like my cousin?" Remus had the deer in a flashlight expression, nodding, then shaking his head like a wet dog and setting on resigned slump of a pouting teenager. Merlin, and that man has a gale to call him immature. "She likes you, too. What's stopping you?"

"Wha…What's stopping me?" Remus laughed with an edge of hysteria in his voice," what doesn't? She is dorky, competent, smart, funny. She doesn't let things bring her down, she is always so…full of life. Like everything bad with this world is only temporary thing with large teeth, but ultimately a small inconvenience, that can be squashed under you boots as you make your way. She is clumsy and can burn tea, I mean, who burns tea? And she laughs like a hyena and it's so aggravating and she does it on purpose too, because she just enjoy making people tell her to stop only to say 'no' and do it all over again…like, like…like some kind of sadist! Sadist, I tell you! And she can be so…unruffled and optimistic to the point of naivety, and it's sweet, but it's dangerous, still adorable. She is so brave…And I'm not any of those things. Just a werewolf and old one to boot. Ha!"

Whoa.

If it was supposed to prove anything, it proved beyond the shadow o the doubt, that his best friend would have a very curious reaction to Amortentia. He expected to tear out reluctant admittance that there is something, not a whole litany about Tonks' valors and 'adorableness'. Remus was in love.

And not at all happy about it. What a nincompoop.

"Is it your excuse or explanation?" Asked finely Sirius, after somewhat mortified Remus sat down, trying to hide his burning face.

"Pardon?"

"Tonks is a woman who knows what she wants. A woman, Remus, you dumb bunny, not a little girl, not anymore, we are not going into that pureblood nonsense of grooming your bride, because…" Sirius cringed.

He remembered how his parents tried to make him 'romanticise' Gwyneth Jones while she still played dolls and was missing front teeth, while the marriage contract was already half written, discussed as if they were trading goods and properties not children. To this day that talk made him want to scrub himself raw and pour bleach through ears to get rid of mental image. It's something that only James and Euphemia Potter knew. It came out at a time, when he questioned everything and one of those question, unfortunately, was _What if I didn't become friends with James?_ It led to guessing and then second guessing and finely horrible panic attack that ended with being gently cradled by Mrs Potter arms as he cried with realization, of what kind of person he might have ended up, if not for his friends. In all his life one thing has proven right. He needed at least one Potter to keep him alive and afloat. He thanked Merlin that Gwen's never truly realized what was happening, before he'd run from home and didn't come back till now. For some reason he was gleeful about the fact that she played for her own team, it was like resonating 'fuck you' to all who thought she would marry some Lord or another as the pureblood princess she was. It was immensely satisfying to see the next generations kicking the pedestal from under stuffy old people clinging to power, like it was forever theirs to keep.

"She, for some reason, wants you and didn't make it a secret. And she. Does. Not. Care. About you being werewolf. We didn't care either."

"You are angry." Whispered Remus and he was one hundred percent right. Sirius was angry, just not for the reasons his friend thought.

"I am angry. Moony, if Lily was here she would bash you in the head so hard you would remember infancy. You are not being noble, you are being an idiot. If you don't want her, and going by your…impassioned speech that's not a case, then tell her. And if you think she is too young…then tell her. She knows who you are, but you…You are dragging your feet, not deciding either way, and _that_ is hurting her. Yes or no, Moony. Tonks is young, not going to lie about it, some won't like it.

"I sense a but." Remus was looking contrite, but not nearly as miserable as at the beginning of their chat and Sirius counted it as a plus.

"But she is not a child. Let her decide. Commit, hold hands, get to know each other, spend time together for year, two, three. If it will work, it will work. Nobody is saying that you have to go and do the naughty, but you know what? You two are disgustingly in love with each other. In few years any age difference will look minimal. In two decades nobody will even remember that there was one. She already was there for you when you changed. She saw it, didn't shy away from it, didn't run for the hills, accepted it as a part of a package. She choose to be an Auror, mental fortitude comes with territory. I am asking you, don't leave her guessing, hmm? She is a strong girl, but heart is a fragile thing, uncertainty can wear it down, so buckle up and talk to her."

"When did you get that wise?" Asked Remus, tiny smile fleeting briefly over his face. He looked like he came into decision or at least was thinking about it. Maybe a verbal kick in the ass was everything he needed to finely stop warring with himself. Maybe he will even talk to her, when she comes back from the 'searching for a run-away Crup in London' case. Goodness, the kind of things people call Aurors for…

Sirius genuinely thought that those two would in fact make a good pair. They both had the time to grow into their own people, with their ups and downs, bad breakups and sorrow and weight of experience wearing down the idealistic visage of perfect ever after. Remus had his moments of idiocy, as evidenced, but it should be said, that they were few and far in between and easily cured. Usually by blunt object. This angst muffin had a lot to offer, more then he thought he could, especially as he always seemed to forget that he wasn't his own grandpa, but a young man still, with years upon years to live as he pleased. He had the kind of patience that should lead to sainthood. For all his showy cynicism, there was a good heart that believed the best in humanity, no matter the hurt that piled up over the years. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that made people at ease and safe in his company. Remus was soft man and that was compliment. It took so long to acknowledge the strength it takes to remain that way, to carry on through the life with kindness, willing to take chances with every person met. Sirius could not help but envy this honest hope in individuals. And Tonks? Tonks was boundless enthusiasm with little to none impulse control. Burning presence full of determination and natural curiosity. She had a love for mischief coupled with steel clad moral core. She was also stupidly stubborn, impatient and had still few miles to go before she learned any tact, but…His cousin had grown into a wonderful woman, who continued to be complicated person while pretending she was nothing of that sort. Impersonated boldness tied around a person as fragile as the rest of them, making her way in this world by a storm. Andy and Ted raised her well.

Remus and Tonks clicked together, different personalities that initially bounded over the love of knowledge, mutual alienation from society and fierce loyalty to their friends, family and convictions. They kept dancing around each other since the day they've met, handling each other like they spend lifetime getting to know all the quirks and pet peeves. They oscillated in close proximity like twin stars, always there for the other. To encourage, to lift spirit, to lean on. He had no idea why nobody else caught on when he knew before they seemed to realize it.

It might yet end in tears, a hazard of life that couldn't be disputed, but Sirius had faith in them. In Tonks' determination. In Remus' courage. And if it ended in friendship, well, what a friendship it could be.

Love is love and it never needs to be something more then it is.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N I wrote and rewrote this chapter too many times to count. Wherever I was going Sherlock quite disagreed and continued mussing and mulling things over. Blame him, I know I do.

 **Disclaimer:** I'd love to own it, but alas...

Enjoy!

* * *

The day turned out beautiful. After nearly whole week of heavy storms and cold rain that made London look like it was the middle of October, this unremarkable Friday ended surprisingly sunny and warm. Something that dragged people out of their homes, crowding the streets, simply wondering about, enjoying their ice-creams and fountains breeze.

Sherlock would be pleased if Harry would do the same. He didn't expected it, no, but he hoped that he might try to venture out, if only to wander back in half an hour. It wasn't that Harry was opposed to going out, on contrary, he loved joining them, be it for a walk or for a case, and would spend hours lurking about corners with Archie or drag Lotta from her cave. But he would not go out on his own. Maybe it shouldn't be worrying, but Sherlock made career on observing people and he could see that something held the child back from exploring on his own. Whatever it was his distaste for large crowds, experience, caution or combination of the three above, he was yet to decipher.

It was hard to gauge since when Harry was up and about, as Sherlock woke up remarkably late, having spend whole night by Catherine's bed, checking her temperature and massaging her back when she coughed her little lungs off. He had put John to sleep after half an hour argument, that could be summed up as John being his stubborn self, while Sherlock reasonably pointed out, that one of them will be staying home the next day while the other will have people to diagnose. It escalated into bit of huffy domestic, till finely Harry interjected and tipped the scale in Sherlock's favor by saying, that he will look after her when the other would take a nap.

When Sherlock clambered out of his bed it was nearly noon. Kitty's hair still looked like dandelion from the bath and humid air coming from four largest pots standing on the stove, three full of water and one was a very slowly cooking chicken soup. Home smelled faintly of peppermint, making every breath easier and on the counter, far away from Catherine's reach and right next to her meds, stood a honey jar and peeled lemon on the plate. In the middle of the room, between sofa and TV lay a large pile of orange blankets and pillows, most certainly nicked from Mrs Hudson's sofa. Harry made blanket fort using two kitchen chairs, back of John's chair and broomstick. Aslan was proudly guarding the entrance, from the state of the kitchen sink a fresh pouch of different herbs probably took residence inside the lion's zipped head.

Aslan, technically belonged to Harry. A boy who was touch starved and cringed from it in equal measures for weeks, before he started to accept casual contact. Sherlock bought it a bit as a desperate measure fallowing a suggestion from internet like a last idiot, because neither of them could look at the way Harry would put himself in a tight ball in his sleep and then flinch when they tried to make him unclench his stiff joints or just comfort him after he woke in tears. So he came home with a lion that was smaller then him by spare inches, its head already filled with lavender and hyssop, small stash at the stomach full of jelly bears and marshmallows and its enormous paws clasped together by magnets. It was good decision. If only to see Harry bursting in laughter, clear and carefree and unburdened at the sight of Sherlock dragging that monster home. And to see his wide glistening eyes, when he realized that this ridiculous toy was for him, stuck somewhere between half embarrassment and half gratefulness.

Harry was not the person who would hoard his possessions without sharing, a trait, Sherlock knew, many took advantage off. Like Catherine was doing now. But it was obvious, nearly right from the start, that Harry was a prickly creature whose, ironically enough, soft spots were his mightiest weapons. Love. Kindness. Compassion. Sherlock helped him find that older lady who offered him plasters and food and he in turn brought her whole tin of handmade biscuits joined by treacle tart, a score of strawberry muffins and light lemon sponge cake. Three days after, she send Harry a thank you note stuck to a cardboard box. Inside, framed in wood frame, was a beautifully done watercolor painting of himself or maybe in this case 'herself' in a white and red dress, hair slicked back but artfully chaotic, standing bright and vivid among the grey background. Harry blushed a storm, but let them put the picture in Mrs Hudson's kitchen where it fit better. He already sent her two letters. Proper one, written with pen on real paper in the old fashioned way, and his only explanation was that he learned once that kindness breeds kindness and while it's hard he decided to try to treat others the same way he wanted to be treated.

He carried this…softness around, for everyone to see with a staggering bravery. It wasn't that he believed that he couldn't be hurt, that he was immune and invulnerable. He simply trusted in the inherent goodness of human nature. Weary, expecting a blow, preparing to be disappointed but hoping, still hoping and sometimes being rewarded beyond measure. Years ago Sherlock would scoff at this, call it naivety and wouldn't look twice. Now he couldn't help the feeling that out of the three of them it was a fifteen year old who fell asleep each night cuddled with unreasonably sized toy that was the strongest of them all. It was humbling experience.

* * *

Catherine, as predicted, was already feeling better. Maybe potions couldn't work on a muggle, but they had their own wizard with actual Doctor and joined by resident plant (mostly poisonous, but it still counted) specialist to offer suggestions and mix few herbs to help more modern medicine along. Their little girl spend a long time this afternoon babbling at Belle, who made her nest among blankets, and knocking plastic ponies together, before settling down to watch some inane show on CBeebies. Nothing got broken or even slightly damaged, no signs of fire, flood or a food fight. She didn't curse even once in the last twenty four hours. Sherlock hated to think this, but it actually was the calmest he saw her in months. He loved her energy and never ending curiosity, but still welcomed the respite.

House was blissfully quiet now. Sherlock moved another sample under microscope light, his other hand scribbling notes. Only part of his mind was focused on the bits of vegetation trapped between the clear glass, the rest was too busy regarding Harry.

Harry for the most part was like a 221b resident ghost. The only time he ever saw him moving loudly, was when he was either angry or wanted to be noticed, and in the first case he had the sort of walk, the low simmering rage, that lengthened Harry's stride and exposed a warrior sleeping behind soft eyes. It made Sherlock's hackles rise and his reptilian brain fighting between fight or flight response. In the other case it was more…reserved. Nervous. Harry making ruckus in deliberate way was usually a sign that he was uncomfortable and non-verbally asking things like 'please, stop arguing, you are scaring me' or 'I have a question, don't be upset'.

Otherwise…

Well, John did call him a ninja it making. Nobody disagreed. A bell was proposed, but as Sherlock woke up with a hair full of butterfly pins and neither John or him even stirred, the notion was dropped. Mycroft meddled as he does and the situation was resolved only when Harry agreed to consider becoming a 'minor non-civil servant'. Mrs Hudson dressed them down for trying to make a teenager into spy and telling them off for watching too much Bond movies. As far as jokes goes nobody was laughing, except for Harry, who couldn't quite grasp that the offer was serious. Sherlock hoped for at least a decade till the subject comes up again. John called him optimistic.

Harry moved from his spot. The light footsteps came closer till a gentle hand touched Sherlock's arm and then took hold of already cold cup of cold tea next to his elbow. Touch from Harry was a rare thing, initiated even more so, Sherlock smiled inwardly as he put another notch in his tally. Every little success should be celebrated.

He looked at Harry's profile. Or he tried to, as the boy was frowning intently at the kettle, one of his arms around his middle as he was leaning his chin on the fist. He was deep in thought, eyes hooded and half hidden by the thick curtain of eyelashes. Something was bothering him, but he appeared to be in something that John called lukewarm mood, the state halfway between boredom and daydreaming and Sherlock decided to leave him be. He moved around the kitchen with the efficiency that spoke of years of familiarity and soon enough a hand landed in Sherlock's vision, turning off the microscope light without any hesitation. He blinked lazily and his inquisitive eyes peered up at Harry. Cup of fresh, and what Sherlock already knew, perfectly brewed tea stood just under his nose along a plate with a toast smelling of basil and tomato paste. It was a trick both Harry and John employed, taking advantage of the fact, that Sherlock will not refuse anything cooked by Harry. It was a trap, he knew. But he still put all his things to the side and went to wash his hands, anticipating the cheesy goodness and plenty of spices.

Their boy was a brilliant cook. He could make the most boring toast into something that would make Mycroft weep, probably one of the reasons why his brother thought it was a good idea to drop by more often then was absolutely necessary. It was hard to chase Harry away from the stove, to make him understand that he was not kept for his usefulness but genuine want, when eating everything he prepared was an experience. But they prevailed. And then Harry would do that, looking completely innocent, and Sherlock never knew if he was ganged up on or if Harry just felt like he wasn't pulling his weight.

He caught the green eyed gaze and nodded slightly. It was all the thank you Harry needed. All that he would safely accept, really, without becoming flustered and frustrated, trying to wave it off like it was nothing. And that was one of the ongoing projects, too. Sherlock, helped by disturbingly tight lipped Mycroft, was building a case against Dursley's and he promised himself to pile up their every misdeed till they drown and cook slowly in their own spite like a frog left in slowly boiling water.

He took a bite with a bit more force then intended, closing his eyes at the taste. He still couldn't figure out how Harry could make cooking easier then chemistry, something so close to precise science. John, just to prove to Harry that it was a skill worth being noted, make them fallow the same recipe found in the vast expanse of internet. In conclusion, Harry's gnocchi won and John stated that 'the same starting material' doesn't necessarily equals success.

It kind of led to Harry sitting with Sherlock and pouring through the freshly bought potions books, with a glint in his eye that spoke volumes of his renewed interest. (The urge to hunt down the Snape person was there since the moment Harry mentioned being punished for breathing, but impending his education was an offence that will not be forgiven.) They softly blew on that small flame, as Harry was as fickle with attentions to subjects he perceived as boring as Sherlock himself, but not yet set in his ways. Still flexible and reaching out for things he found interesting. That's how they realized that Harry was a bit like a raven.

Equally picky and contrite.

His tendencies didn't finish at knowledge. He had predisposition for all that was glowing, glittering, shimmering and shining. He liked gold. Enough that one of the first things he bought just for himself was golden nail polish with glitter, putting the fine smooth coat on freshly manicured hands. It was supremely funny to watch him fallow his own fingers with his eyes when the light caught just right on the gleaming surface. He had moments when he would look up at glint of glasses from a person sitting far away from him or get distracted by bejeweled phone cases.

One day they came home with cheep tacky gold fountain pen with fake swarovski crystals and they only ever saw it when Harry unearthed it from the depths of his ever present bag to write. It was…endearing. The cost didn't matter, he cherished that kitschy present the same way he did everything else they gave him. He was surprised every time they bought him books with no reason other then for him to enjoy them, clothes that they thought he might like and he didn't quite know what to do with his eyes when John put a package on his knees and wished him Happy Too Early Birthday. Didn't stop them from giving him presents and actual cake on thirty first, of course, but inside this parcel was a journal they thought was important for him to have it. It's original purpose was to serve for Harry's therapy notes, but he used it for pretty much everything. Binding was made of soft faux leather engraved with a world map, plenty of pages close in touch and colour to parchment and metal compass charm hanged from leather string as a bookmark. It was a large thing, growing bigger every day as he glued a stack of photos, doodles, rants and tickets to the thick paper. Everything that Harry thought important went there and he protected it religiously, letting them see one page every now and then, but nothing beyond, shy and careful, holding it close and never far away. It was tempting to see what was inside, to know what he thought and what hatched in his funny little brain. They were also sure that he was working on something bigger then just small cases, searching and hunting for information with dogeared determination. From the laptop history (which, not deleted- was fair game) he focused his digging here, in London, and while there was this elusive _thing_ , a feeling that not everything was as it should be, try as he might, Sherlock couldn't see a pattern by just fallowing the same road. Whatever Harry looked for was lost in the sea of research (and vine compilations, send usually by Lo, who also took on herself educating Harry in all things Disney and vintage cars) stalking social media for cases (logging in as either John or Archie as he tried to leave as little traces of himself in internet as he could) and incomplete by the virtue of him preferring to use smartphone instead of laptop.

Sherlock hated not knowing. It was a daily struggle to stop himself from just sneaking a peek in his notes when nobody was looking, but he had a feeling that would he try, Harry will never trust him again. Forgive? Yes. But he won't forget. They took home immensely private person who held barely any trust in adults that were supposed to take care of him, to break it now would mean that there was a very little chance that Harry would ask for help when he truly needed it. Sherlock liked that quirky teenager a little bit too much to risk his mental health or safety over satisfying his own curiosity.

Life is proving to be harder when you strive to become a better person, but it gives extras.

He threw a look at blond curly mane sticking out from the pile of orange blankets, Belle met his eyes and blinked at him slowly before setting closer to Catherine, probably ready to murder anyone who would try to lay one finger at his daughter. Hedwig would undoubtedly join, too. She was sitting on Harry's knee where he got himself curled up in the nook next to window, gold pen moving in his hand, sun reflecting in his glasses and hiding his eyes as he occasionally sipped tea from his star-covered cup. They were safe. Content. Close.

It was worth it.

He stilled when Harry closed his journal and got up, leaving it on windowsill instead of carrying it with himself. In a few moments he disappeared upstairs in a flutter of wings and fading footsteps. Sherlock listened to a soft click, delicate breeze curled around his ankles.

Catherine moved in her sleep, snoring lightly with the background of Raa Raa The Noisy Lion. John would be home in less then half an hour, so decision made, he wrote a message to Mrs Hudson and climbed on his feet, rolling stiff shoulders and taking last sip of his tea. Crossing across the room he picked up Harry's jacket, hanging it in the crook of his arm and then stepped closer to the makeshift tent.

"Sherlock? " Mrs Hudson stood with a bag full of yarn, beginning of charcoal grey sweater on top and he knew one person that it could fit on. He bend down, kissing the top of his daughter's head, run his hand through black-and-grey cat fur, scratching Kneazle behind large ears before straightening up and pointing toward stairs. Mrs Hudson nodded, making her way to the small part of sofa that was clear of any rubble, rolling her eyes at finding her pillows among the blankets, throwing him baleful glance. For once innocent he mouthed 'Harry' and she shooed him on his way, eyes clearing and crinkled in amusement as she set down. It was totally unfair, that she would trust fifteen year old over two grown men when it came to 'borrowing' her possessions. All the unguaranteed suspicion, so hurtful. She made face at his expression, one that said everything about the depth of her fondness for her boys and how utterly ridiculous he was being right now. He admitted defeat, if only in his head and headed upstairs.

As predicted, the window in Catherine's room was open, fingertips smudges along the glass, partial footprint on the sill a proof enough that at the very last Harry climbed on the roof with something more then only socks unlike the last time. Sherlock closed the window, deciding to take lazy approach, and minute later he was on top of the roof without breaking in sweat or acrobatics.

It was no surprise to find Harry there as he loved highs to a scary degree. When they took him for the first time to London Eye, he spend whole time with his nose inches from the glass, looking like he regretted it was there, eyes half closed in pleasure as the wheel turned slowly. He had a habit of climbing up the highest point every chance he got…much like a prickly cat who disliked company. It made him quite easy to find, one of those things that was comfortingly predictable in this otherwise quaint creature.

Harry was smoking. Sitting with his forearms placed on bent knees on the dragged in and upturned apple crates piled up in the corner. His bruises long healed, all that was left was tightly corded arms streaked with numerous scars barely lighter then his skin, but still visible like a stripes on the tiger's back. Physically, he looked well, no longer like he was bound to break at the slightest touch, growing steadily and chasing Sherlock for inches and John for number of whiskers sprouting from his sharp jaw. Small crate of potions took care of anemia, strengthened his bones (and boy, was it fun explanation that it was basically _regrowing_ them in a space of hours) and for first few days helped him sleep, before he squinted sleepily at the ingredients and made them realize that asphodel and belladonna were addictive.( Sherlock still poured through books, trying to understand how in the world wizards have little to no problems by basically chugging on the most poisonous plants and substances in the world. He was not satisfied with 'because magic') Those went at the highest shelf in a blink of an eye, to be used only at a last resort. They were promptly replaced by infusion of Valerian root and marihuana that smelled like sweaty socks and would kill a lesser man, but didn't even tickled a wizard, and naps scattered over the day preluded by warm milk with honey or decaffeinated lemon tea.

It was something of an experiment that gave off astonishing results.

Wizards reacted strangely well to herbs, especially those prepared by them. And they worked better on non magical people, too. Tea made by Harry was more likely to help him sleep then when it was done by John. Pouch of lavender, scullcap and passion fruit would drop Sherlock down in minutes, something that just shouldn't work like that. But it did. While herbs worked better, they were not as effective on their wizard as the first potion, but none of them was willing to chance Harry becoming addicted to wizarding version of sleeping pills. Some nights he slept poorly no matter what they tried, but Grace endorsed natural methods and concoctions, as magic reacted badly with most muggle meds and the mental health research in St Mungos was still in nappies. It was a running joke that Harry was essentially a lab rat, because while his therapist knew every trick of human psyche taught by muggle and wizards, medicating was a nightmare of mixing Wiccan magic and well wishing. Which did not explain why Harry was sitting unnaturally still, breathing in a third rate tobacco and tar instead of sitting down with a cuppa of his medical tea.

Tendrils of light grey smoke swirled around Harry's head in unnatural way, making Sherlock believe that he wasn't really aware of his surroundings. Theory was proven when he stepped over two bowls of rain water covered by thin linen, sat down next to him and the boy only woke up from the trance once the dark red leather jacket landed around his shoulders. He blinked rapidly as the shroud disappeared. He could swear there were shapes in there, vaguely human-like, dancing, a second and you miss it trick of light.

It happened, sometimes, a minute signs of magic that looked uncontrolled and unconscious. Of course, there were moments when Harry was the one in control, focusing intently on creating light or summoning biscuits. It was wonderful thing to watch and know that it was real, but Sherlock never seen him performing this kind magic while he was so out of it.

Harry looked disoriented, like he was not sure how he ended up there. Sherlock pried cigarette from his loose fingers, taking a whiff and finding nothing that could cause that reaction. Harry kept blinking rapidly, shaking his head and then he rubbed his itchy chin, swallowing twice, trying to avoid Sherlock's eyes. He slouched, his hair falling around his face escaping the loose hold of plastic clasp. Sherlock looked him over, passing back the still lit fag. No dilated eyes, pulse slightly elevated but slowing down at the continued silence, no jittery fingers. There was nothing but embarrassment at being caught, and yet…

"Why now?" Green eyes peered at him, long fingers flicking ash in the old can, left there years ago for this purpose. "Why not two weeks ago, why not after we solved your case, why now, Harry?"

Boy shook his head again, disquieted, lips pursed as he looked up with somehow pained expression, gathering his thoughts.

"I don't know."

Sherlock sighed inwardly, willing himself to be patient. Screaming might achieve desired results. Harry could eat three times a day without being reminded, sit straight and go out 'socialize' like a nice little automaton, but neither John or Sherlock wanted to see him flinch and scurry around, retreating into his shell, mindlessly obeying orders out of fear or just running away, forever convinced that he was broken and unworthy of home, love, security. Deducing and fishing out information by striking in the most direct way was out of the question, as he never knew what he will stumble upon and blurt out without thinking. They have only two months, time that have to count enough for Harry to be able to go to Hogwarts knowing, that he have people who will not abuse him or measure his worth by how 'adjusted' how 'important' how 'useful' he was. Trying to drag out things that were not meant to see the light of the day for some time yet was counterproductive and Sherlock already knew more then Harry was comfortable with sharing. From the way his arm would loop around the plate to the few overly innocuous steps that would put his back to the door when John would rise his voice or Sherlock turned too sharply. From 'I don't need bed' to 'I'm fine'. From scarred palms and knuckles and not even a hiss at the sting of antiseptic. They were winning slowly but surely, inch by inch. All they required was time and space. And what they needed the most was a one thing they were short off.

"Why did you start." Sherlock asks instead and watches as Harry relaxes slightly, some of the tension bleeding out at being able to answer. His voice is bland, in a way that he recognized as a soul that was done its screaming in the void and remained unheard for far too long.

"It was easier to find cigarette then food. Helped a bit with the shakes, too. My cousin started smoking last year, but he is like a squirrel, forgets half of his stashes, it was child- play to find them and raid them, he is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. My uncle is a chain-smoker so everything in the house is soaked in the smell. It's not hard to hide a lighter and fag, when everything smells like cheap snuff but take an energy bar and everybody is screaming bloody murder." Harry took the last drag, very slowly letting the pale cloud escape through his pursed lips. He didn't look up for a moment, profound sadness clinging to him like the last swirls of smoke as he pulled out mangled package out of the pocket of his jeans, offering it to Sherlock.

"Those are your last?" He knew they were. To his knowledge, this was the first time Harry smoked since they took him home, and he saw the blue and white foil long time ago among his belongings. Left there without confrontation to confirm a theory, because he can't deduce what he can not see. He still waited for confirmation, before passing the pack back. "I won't tell John and you may keep them, but I have ultimatum."

Harry's brief surprise turned into weary resignation, but he still nodded, stretching his long legs before him, putting his hands in the sleeves of his jacket before zipping it halfway. His mouth a pale confused line, still not used to people who not only gave a damn about him, but tried to raise him. Somewhat. He spend his whole life taking care of himself as best as he could and taking hazards with his health, some for his continued survival and some because he didn't quite got it yet that he was not expendable. Trying to teach him to be softer on himself was going about as easily as predicted, especially as that lesson has yet to sink in both John's and Sherlock's makeup. Hard to learn coping mechanisms from people who didn't yet got that part themselves.

"Shoot." Snarked Harry with smile like he swallowed a pint of lemon juice, not quite able to look Sherlock in the eye.

"You won't buy more. This is the last pack. I won't say that it'll last forever, but it's going to last as long as you live here. My nicotine patches are not for decoration and John will have kittens if he caught you or me, for the matter, with those. You live with recovering addicts and a baby, Harry." Harry paled, Sherlock barely heard the mumbled broken 'I'm sorry', before Harry's breath hitched as he curled into himself once again. He looked miserable, close to tears and it suddenly became obvious that some of it he carried ever since the 'Morning' exchanged after Sherlock joined the land of living. Way to go. Sherlock was completely off his mark, as Harry was bothered by 'something' enough to go out on his way o smoke like a ruffian and not even hiding. Enough that he spend most of the day quiet…too quiet even for him. Few rooms in Mind Palace suddenly needed remodeling, as he tried to remember every other tick and tell Harry showed over the span of he last hours that might have spelled 'trouble, proceed with caution'.

Life was a mine field.

He looked through the options and took one that guaranteed at least seventy percent of success. At least with toddlers. He lay his hand on Harry's shoulder and then, gently, pulled the panicking boy closer.

"Harry, we are okay, everything is alright. I am not angry. And even if John will find out, nothing will happen to you, understand? Nobody is going to hurt you. You are safe." It wasn't working. If anything, Harry was even more upset, his breath uneven as he was apologizing in a string of jumbled words.

Sherlock drew a line at 'stupid screw up'.

Harry's intelligence was a sore spot. Maybe even more for them then for Harry himself. It's not because he lacked it, if he did nobody would not let him and Archie handle all the little cases peppered around the city, nor would Sherlock waste his time teaching him to not only see, but observe. Harry was brilliant. He remembered all the obscure little facts, dragged up from the time he just barely learned to read, not to mention the way he would catch nuances that escaped both John's and Sherlock's attention and tie them down into bigger picture. But Harry spend his whole life being told that he was stupid, lazy, not showing enough potential. That he wasn't good at things because he didn't apply himself. That because he wasn't good at everything he must be good for nothing. Sherlock spend his childhood hearing the same thing. The 'could be better' and 'if you are so smart then why you don't know it' and 'you are not even trying'. From teachers, occasionally from his parents and everybody else, people who did not know the fraction of what he did, but liked lording their primary school knowledge over him. Sherlock found his niche in chemistry, became very good at it and suddenly was proclaimed genius, therefore _allowed_ to become 'eccentric'. Then he found forensic science and any jab at his lack of knowledge in other departments didn't hold the same sting it did when he was little boy. But it still hurt.

Harry was still searching. There was keen mind at work there, flourishing at the lightest prompt, powered by enthusiasm, necessity or challenge. They shared that singular focus once it was found. Fixated on one point for extended length of time in the way that made John jokingly ask if they are sure they aren't related.

Sherlock found that he wouldn't mind if they did.

People in his life treated Harry like he was a broken toy that couldn't be left on its own. That he should be 'managed' and led by hand, couldn't be trusted to just _be_ , made to perform one miracle at the time. John, after coming to that conclusions few hours after Harry talked (or more like mentioned in passing here and there, all of this meticulously put in memory and, in John's case, few hidden notes) about his friends and adults that 'took care' of him, spend hours apologizing to Sherlock, both verbally and far longer non-verbally. It took embarrassingly long time for Sherlock to draw the parallels between himself and their resident wizard. Maybe that's why it was hard to swallow hearing him say those things. It hurt even more knowing that some part of him believed them.

"Stop. Harry. Stop. No, you've done one small mildly stupid thing. You didn't break anything, no harm done. It's okay to not know, it's okay to make mistakes. God damn it child, why would you even…" Sherlock didn't finish, instead he found himself face to face with a wreaked with pain teenager. He needed John. That was precisely the reason they agreed to always talk with Harry together. Not that it ever worked...

"I lied to them! I lied to my friends over and over and over." Harry bit of a sob, trying to make Sherlock understand. And understand he did…of all the possible things… Harry's loyalty was unshakable thing and his friends were a fixed point in his life, the first fixed point. The fundamental point. To lie to them probably felt like a betrayal.

"I know." Child deflated, sitting on his knees, eyelashes wet from tears that didn't fall. He mouthed 'how?' In a incredulous tone. Sherlock considered lying, briefly. And felt all the worse for it. "I've read one of your letters. You've left it next to my notes and I…"

Harry closed his eyes, fists curled on his knees, even now trying to be conscious of his therapist advice, probably trying to assess whatever he had the right to be angry or not. He knew that Sherlock reads everything, sometimes things that he didn't want to see, had no business of seeing, but if it's not hidden, it's a fair play for a mind that couldn't just be turned off. But would knowing that make it less a breach of privacy?

In the end Harry nodded, defeated and hurting, fingers nervously tugging at his hair.

"Why did you lie?" Maybe Sherlock would one day learn to leave things very well alone, but it was not this day. Harry chuckled mirthlessly.

"So they will not know that I have only half of my oars in the water? My life before I met you was put together by tape and ten feet of string. Shoddy workmanship that, but it felt solid enough to not fall apart should I look the other way. I don't know how am I going to go back to the person I was when now everything is so…non -tangible. How will I win the war when I can't even pull myself together?"

"Did it ever occurred to you, that while the fates choose a good person, they did not choose non infallible one?" Sherlock pried Harry's fingers from his hair, gently waving them together and placing them on his lap. "You are not crazy. Not a basket case, no more nuts then me or John or Lestrade. Nobody can always be at the top of their game, not a sportsman, no lawyer, no scientist. We are not perpetuum mobile, we are not meant to stay strong all the time, child. The fact that you were able to endure does not equal obligation to withstand it. You've run yourself to the ground, trying to carry on as you always were, shouldering the weight of the world, but never gave yourself time to heal. To slow down, ease off from the full of sprint. You stopped, suddenly and everything that was chasing you to that point caught up and rushed ahead. That's why it feels like everything falls right through your fingers and you can't grasp where the old you finished and the new one begins. Change is tremendously scary thing and it takes a different kind of bravery to knowingly change yourself."

"Sherlock?" Whispered Harry after a long moment, fingers trembling lightly in Sherlock's hands, "I need to go and hit things."

"Do we have a deal?" Harry looks up at him, then at the pack lying close to his knee. He nods. "Verbally, if you would."

"Can do one better." Sherlock watches as Harry shuffles a bit to the side, cigarettes held in one hand and then he breaks them all in half, making tiny stack, foil and torn cardboard soon join in and a moment later they are ablaze with bluish flames.

"Just like that?"

"You are right. I should have done a flip. " Comes the serious tone and Sherlock breaths easier. Harry smiled sheepishly, thoroughly embarrassed as he scratched the back of his neck. "For what's worth, I am sorry…I just didn't want to worry you or John…"

"This, "murmured Sherlock looking at the smelly twisted package perishing in a tin ashtray, "worried me more."

"Not my smartest moment." And then Harry does something that surprises them both, leaning over and wrapping his arms around Sherlock, once again mumbling quiet apology half hidden in a thin dark blue sweater. "I feel like I licked an ashtray."

Sherlock pursed his lips to stop the chortle lodged in his throat, then lightly stood the teenager up and pushed him toward exit. There was still enough time to get rid of some lingering smoke. Oh, who was he trying to hoodwink, he would tell John five minutes in. He steals a glance at Harry, at the dark solemn eyes and sad pull of his full mouth.

He could not fix him.

Not any more then he could fix John's nightmares or Molly's bad taste in men, himself included. No bandage or spell or all the magic and might in the world would not be able to patch up this hurt that could not be made visible on any x-ray. But he could help and that needed to be enough. Maybe he will go make a calming potion, take a chance of Harry being in the room, since it needed a presence of magical person to work and not turn in the poisonous soup. Call one of those Mycroft's Monkeys to come and practice defense with Harry, tire him up physically, then sit him through logic puzzles, take his mind of the problem. Talk to John. And message Grace for morning therapy session, if all that fails to produce any results, take him to Molly. If anyone knew the weight of keeping secrets from friends, it was her. No, he can't fix Harry, but he will make sure that their kid will have all the tools to do it by himself. And once he did, Sherlock will enjoy watching him smash his enemies, building bridges and burning bright as he goes to make his mark on the world. There was too much fire in that boy to fade into obscurity. Too much sense of justice to sit back and do nothing and too big of a heart to stop protecting those who can not fight for themselves.

If only Harry knew those things…

"Limitations." Harry looks up as they walk down the stairs, Sherlock's hand resting lightly on his forearm. "Our greatest blessings are our curses and our curses are our blessings. I want you to write every character trait you think you possess and think of its opposite. Make a list and then find your limitations. We will brainstorm and think of ways to overcome them. It's good to know your strengths and weaknesses. " He waits a moment for any reaction, but Harry only nods slowly, thoughtfully as he unconsciously straightens up. "No protests?"

"As far as punishments go, this is the only one I ever had that didn't include mindless manual labor or senseless repetition, so… no. Thank you, Sherlock."

Harry made his way toward kitchen to check up on the broth, stopping to kiss Mrs Hudson's cheek, leaving Sherlock with the strangest feeling in his chest. Something warm and glowing nestled under his breastbone and he rubs it lightly. Huh, maybe he can do the parenting shtick without John after all.

"Sherlock, is that smoke?"

Shit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer** : Still don't own.

A/N Writing is like a pie. You can make a mean apple pie, really, they will kill each other for every last crumb. And one day you'll be asked to do it on some fancy occasion and realize...it's plain. You make it every Saturday. So you try out a brand new recipe from internet like a last lump, add too much cinnamon, forget the baking powder and mix it when it already sat a minute in an oven, don't have any limes and pour salt instead of vanilla sugar...And then call it acquired taste until you bake it five years later and realize that you were an idiot.

My advantage comes from the fact I already know I'm an idiot.

Enjoy!

* * *

The Grimmauld Place was still swallowed by murky pre-morning light when a Kneazle sat on a short stone fence at the end of the street, golden eyes moving lazily over houses. It was rather large animal, elegant and long-haired, with pearly white fur marked visibly by jaguar-like gray-to-black spots running over its belly and legs. It sat there like a statue, long groomed tail over front paws, tip teasing the ribbon attached to its collar. Finally, flicking its pointy fluffy ear it stood up, stretched with a jaw breaking yawn and then trotted straight toward the invisible number twelve, jumped on the railing and through the means known only to itself landed gently in the inner courtyard.

Black car that stood for unknown length of time parked close to #1 moved suspiciously slowly in the cat's wake. A man with receding hairline and penetrating steely eyes looked through the shadowed window at the tip of the tail disappearing in the space between number 11th and 13th. For one moment, barely a flicker, he saw whatever was hiding under the spell - a sight, that should be accompanied with a flash of lightening, sound of tormented souls and perhaps organ music as the house truly represented the street's name. His only reaction was a pointed glance given to smartly dressed woman sitting across from him, her hands moving insistently and constantly over her phone. She gave no visible sign of being aware of her company, but second later the car parked on the corner. She opened the door on her side without looking up from the screen.

Slim, long-haired feline jumped on the seat and then made its way toward charcoal grey clad legs before, true to its nature, flopped down, leaving white hair on terribly expensive suit. She, of course, knew better then to kneed on clothes.

"Not a word." Stated the man, his hand going through the rich thick fur. The boy's appearance was a blessing in disguise, one of the better pros turned out to be a chance of acquiring such a wonderful threat detector. Kneazles were, in Mycroft's opinion, severely unappreciated. His dear Sappho and her sister from the same litter, Belle, were already proving themselves useful, not to mention how loyal companions they made. Fur on the clothes and carpets was a small price to pay for the pleasure of watching people squirm at their unnervingly intelligent gaze and readiness to take an eye from anyone threatening harm to their family. Beautiful, smart, refined and loyal to boot, who could ask for more?

"Sir." He didn't acknowledge the way her lips twitched in the most unprofessional way a his rather obvious delight in chosen...associate. They knew each other for long enough that this kind of behavior could be overlooked and forgiven.

Curiosity satisfied, he picked his phone, and swallowing his distaste for such measures, but intimately aware that calling would get him only a headache and none of those wonderful cupcakes he was promised, he send a short message. Not to mention how, that one day after calling, he dropped his glass on himself six times in a row before caving in and apologizing. Apparently, Harry could battle Dark Lords but shared Sherlock's aversion to picking up phone and had a strange predilection toward wild magic of rather mischievous nature.

Mycroft swallowed a sigh that threatened to escape as he petted Sappho purring on his lap. Oh, how he hated legwork, but trusting any of his _minions_ with the location could prove to be a fatal mistake.

He deserved a reward, surely...

His phone pinged discreetly. He opened the message with a frown, enlarging attached picture. Behind grinning Harry, who looked far too chirpy for this hour was a familiar wooden table. There, standing on the rack in two even rows, slathered in puffy light lemon cream and adorned with tiny swirl of dark chocolate suspiciously similar to umbrella...Mycroft teared his eyes from the blessed sight at the next ping.

 **Hurricane  
05:43  
They are still sleeping. I have freshly ground coffee and warm scones with rose confiture. Ask ****_A._** **if she wants to try coffee with hot chocolate blend, J would drink puddle water and S everything sweet. I need honest opinion. See you in few minutes :)**

"Change of plans." Any crisis that lasted this long could last another half an hour. Anthea's eyes flickered up at him, noting everything that was there between one blink and the next and understanding even before he said another word. "Baker Street. It looks like at least one person beside us cares about the well being of government."

Anthea nodded and put the phone in her pocket.

* * *

 _Hello you,_

 _I realized that I didn't tell you what kind of people I am staying with, how we spend time or any other valuable information that could be used by anyone... only dropped the 'Hi, I'm gone' bomb and left you guessing like a last pillock. How inconsiderate of me to leave you in the dark in such a bad situation but, after all, I'm afraid safety continues to be far more important then your comfort, I am sure you understand this very well, being mature and capable individuals._

 _As you can see I've found a way to contact you, at least this once, so here, let me tell you a thing or two about the family I'm staying with, so you can find me in no time at all and bring me back on a string like a yo-yo._

 _I'm living with filthy rich gay couple. Filthy rich. Who in those times can afford to buy on the spot a whole hardcover set of Lord Of The Rings and Tales of Little Wizard and his Dragon Boy books just because they want to? Madness._

 _Will and Hamish are not precisely the kind of people that you meet every day. Under the roof on this house the only one without a headcount is a two and half year old baby. Don't worry, her mum was an assassin and died protecting them so they didn't kidnap her or anything like that. Perfectly legal affair. (Speaking of affairs, I am weirdly convinced that she was either their biggest cockblocker or the greatest shipper. Like nothing in between. She must have been quite the character for both of them to love her, there is few people who can say that they like_ ** _both_** _.)_

 _Will is not a man you can just exist around. He is, well, pretty much like me in that way. Things happen around him, to him, to his friends, he does have experience handling world's shit. He oscillates on that thin barrier between what is normal and what happens only to select few and there are days when the line is written in the sand and will be erased should a storm come. As a person who deals with a petty bullying (you know who am I talking about- petty, childish, boo-hoo, daddy didn't pay attention to me so I go around being mean to people, because I have inferiority complex and picking on weaker then me just hits the spot -sort ) and still has to worry about some idiot wannabe bastard child with abandonment issues chasing after my ass like a teenager with a crush, (bitch has a made up name and the darker version of friendship bracelets, don't tell me that's a thing among 'dark and evil', I will laugh), I can empathize._

 _Hamish was a pretty badass person even before those two met, he had eventful life, made a smashing career, but he heavily implied that he wasn't truly living to his fullest before he'd met Will. I think Will in not so many words but few obvious actions said the same about Hamish. They are not the softcore people who slide about their life taking it one wave at the time. They create those waves, walk toward things that make others run and get too much stick for their troubles and not nearly enough carrot. Both have a mastery in fucking up and paying high prices for their mistakes. And sometimes paying for the other's mistake, but I have not a single doubt about how much they love and adore each other. They deal with all the shit by standing back to back in the epic 'bromance turned romance' way._

 _They are not particularly nice men, politeness is under revision, insults and praise are always edged with honesty. You have to stay sharp and search for both with those sarcastic bastards, it's like living with all Hogwarts houses packed in two people combo. There is nothing moderately easy about them, and my, do I like it that way._

 _Neither is a flowers and chocolate guy. More like unending devotion and deep, hard won loyalty, sort of people. Not mushy with 'darlings' and 'babes' and 'puddingpoo' (who comes with those?). I didn't hear them exchange even one 'I love you', but I guess, you can love someone deeply without making a huge dramatic fuss about it. They write their love notes with 'buy milk' and 'come if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway', ask about their day in 'Thai or Chinese?' and when they smile at each other...it's a beautiful thing. I would pay all the galleons in the world to have someone smile at me like that. They are a bit broken people, holding their edges together, better in every way together then apart, so painfully, irrevocably human._

 _I heard that some call them cold, unfeeling. Claim that they are cruel and not fit for any society. I guess masses are full of shit and would rather say the worst about people who don't play thank-you-oh-so-very-much-with-cherry-on-top game, then make any effort to see good men who don't care to be thanked for their service. The are lethal and will not give an inch, but for each other, for a little baby girl, for people who fight for them, with them, beside them... they melt. It's like they wear armors that fall away the second they can, shake off the rust and dust and slip into something softer, gentler._

 _They don't hide who they are and the funny thing is, a lot of people think that Hamish is the nice one, but he is an A+ asshole no questions asked. He makes me drink milk, the absolute monster...Will just has no social filter but he is still comfortably a jerk by design. (I mean, who tells you up front that when fighting basilisk I should have hit it in the back of the neck? I was twelve, I jabbed it and was thrilled it was gone, no matter the nearly dying part. Weak stabbing technique, my ass... I don't expect to meet another one in my life, please and thank you. Not everyone can be white weapon master with years of formal training.) It's wonderfully refreshing, knowing people who are pricks, but ultimately wonderful ones._

 _So, those two, just because they could, decided to keep me in the 'well, of course you are staying, why you thought we took you home?' In the spirit of 'hey, you look like a shit scrapped from farmer's boot, the fuck you are coming wherever they did that to you, over our dead bodies'. The first thing I heard after I snored for a half of afternoon, tucked in in the coolest room in the house on incredibly hot day, was 'I've made dinner, Hamish is shopping. Do you want anything?' Nothing about why my clothes are too big and more fitting as rags on a scarecrow, where I was going, who are my parents. What I got was' when did you eat? Are you hurt? Is there somebody you wish to contact?' And most important 'we are taking you to see a healer.' - You might be happy to know that I no longer have anemia and have only one batch left to cure first stage osteoporosis, cheers._

 _They were in the middle of a job. Important job and, as I'm living here for a while - they are dead serious about what they do. Instead, they came home, played a bit with their baby, practically spoon-fed me and then left me in their home alone, without second thought, to wander about as I pleased with only instruction to be careful with old books collection and to not get my hands in the first aid box, not even for pepper-up before someone can look me over. Put a note on the counter that they left me sandwiches (they write a lot of notes, you know? You'd think that a person with eidetic memory and another who made a career on remembering complicated words would remember to buy tea and frozen pea) and money is in a jar and if I truly am hell bent on going on my way, to please take at least one more blanket, warmer jacket from the wardrobe and leave my contact, so they could find me if I got into trouble, but they would rather I'd stay if it's all the same for me._

 _I don't know why I stayed. I had a lot of reasons to trust them-or acted on annoying character flaw-but at the same time I desperately wanted to go. When they came back I was sitting on the carpet going through papers and notes they left and we just looked at each other, equally surprised I was still there. (Maybe it was the 'want' part. Don't remember if anyone ever asked me if I want something and then went and actually did it.) Half an hour later we were squeezed together on leather sofa, slurping on cold milkshakes and iced tea, while I tried to help as much as I could with their work. (Got to exercise my drawing, I don't quite remember why I stopped?)_

 _Remember the Halloween in our first year, folks? That instant zing, like things falling into a place when we started to be Golden Trio, or whatever they call us now? It was there. For all the tea in England I can't tell you why I trust them...pretty much with my life. Why I feel like I fit here, with those strange people with steel in their souls, sometimes harsh and rude but truthful, who, for all the steps we missed with each other, have never hurt me and keep trying to pick me up when I stumble. I have more food then I can eat, more clothes then I can wear, more books then I can read and more attention and care then I know what to do with. It's a month and some and I know I am going to miss them terribly, completely, down to the bones. They are mine, my kind of people, like the are tailored right for me, already carved under my skin and I'm sick at the thought of leaving them. I don't know how I'm going to live without evenings with tangled legs and play fighting for fortune cookies and sleeping on couch with rays of sunlight painting the floor soft orange. Without running around that soft squishy babe and watching as she plays, telling absurd stories. It's unreal how warm her smile can be. How brilliant the world seems when she is happy._

 _What the hell will I do with no William that likes to asks ten thousand questions, answers about the same amount and expects nothing more then doing your best and never perfection. (It's on the fridge, you know? 'Do your best. You will not always be the best, but you can always do your best and don't let people tell you that this is not enough'. It's covered in glitter and flowers and tiny baby handprint and it was already there before I slipped in their lives. Think about it.)_

 _Hamish laughs a lot with that sort of exasperated fondness, especially when we spoil the ending of his book and he grumbles when we busy ourselves with experiments or reading or when we are late when he made food and he has to haul us in the kitchen like we all are two year olds being contrary he makes that funny thing with his nose..._

 _I dread September, but all the same..._

 _I miss you all exactly as much. I miss Hermione with her endless enthusiasm for things outside the norm and the drive to find solutions for every problem, (I've learned loads of things, would it kill wizards to make internet...or pizza? Or do we have to do everything by ourselves? Does Hogwarts library have index charm? How much easier it would be to search for information, yeah? Did I woke your crusader's spirit? Hope I did,) Roughhousing with twins and their unchecked mischief ( how are you, bringers of chaos? Looking forward to all those brilliant things you came up with. We will need all the happiness we can get. Speaking of happiness, please send few bags of dung to Dursleys, I'm sure they will have more fond feelings for it then they ever had for me, but I will be thrilled if you let them know I didn't forgot about them.) Gin's witty comebacks and stark honesty, (thank you for your letters. I've found a 'someone'. Yes, me, the 'I've made career of not talking about it', me. She is brilliant. Uses too many metaphors with shoes but makes up for it with splendid coffee,) Ron's bland humor and mothering (don't pretended you don't do it. Ps. I know bazillion new games, did you ever heard if Monopoly?) Sirius' unwavering support (I love you, you great mutt, can't wait to see you again. Speaking of animals -Hedwig turned out to be good at not letting sleeping rats lie, imagine that). And finally Mrs Weasley's hugs and Mr Weasley's levelheaded advice. Thank you for all you did for me, I was just another mouth to feed but you never hesitated to offer me a place in your family._

 _Merlin, I want you all, here, with me, always. All of you and all of them, because you are all important and dear to me. Is it too selfish to keep you all forever?_

 _Sniffing-over-letter,  
H_

* * *

That was the letter found on the windowsill in the kitchen, tied by silky pink ribbon with a fried edge and glued to one white owl feather. That is to say, it was found by Crookshanks, accompanied by loud choked up yowling that got whole house up in arms and stomping bleary eyed but alert, trying to find what it the world was causing those hellish noises.

The emotional response it caused was a sight to behold, as all this time spend searching for Harry there was no sign of him anywhere at all. From unanswered inquires in Gringotts that threatened to throw the overly pushy wizards in the mines to Snape's frosty reports full of 'I don't knows and neither does The Dark Lord'

Half an Order was despairing the fate of their small, innocent and painfully naive baby charge under the hold of those 'dangerous immoral people, probably dark, the lot of them' - Dumbledore's little lamb found home among the wolves, a fate so horrible that he needed rescuing before they mar his young innocent soul and turn him away from the Light. To be sure, Harry's message didn't lack unflattering description that, in most part, strangely enough matched Snape's cheerful countenance. Doubled. What other half noticed right away, was that Harry repeatedly stated that he felt right at home among them and that they cared for him in all the ways they should. In all the ways he lacked before.

(Said people also grasped the fact that Harry was utterly, wonderfully, delightfully savage and, as open as his insults were, their chosen targets were not mentioned by name but still recognized, unable to protect themselves in any way without naming themselves. Hermione who held the letter hostage till they were promised copies was so visibly torn between pride at the insinuation and disapproval at the rather coarse language, that it inspired Fred and George into making some sort of dual emotion candies. Sirius couldn't wait to see how one can feel 'cheerful despair' and how close it resembled his own mental state those days.)

Harry of course still remained a child, but no amount of wishing and wanting could make him a person he was not, while the Order continued to make a mistake of confusing his young age with the lack of character. Or skill. Or experience. Or two brain cells to clack and rub together. Sirius couldn't possibly grasp how they could truly think that anyone would still stay the same after the trials Harry has been put through, but maybe it came from the fact that spare few members had ever met him, drawing their knowledge from hearsay and second hand sources. Mainly Snape, as Dumbledore was rarely there to correct him. Those who did know Harry...well, they swinged from overprotective to downright wishing him the absolute worst. If you took those extremes, those left were Sirius himself, Remus, Tonks and Moody, joined less overtly by Bill and Charlie. Last two weren't that surprising. Molly always felt the need to keep her family close, as if she could protect them from everything not right in the world, but in the twist of irony she made a mistake of raising brave and independent people, who could not be contained and kept safe and happen to possess functioning brains.

* * *

The day didn't pass without tears. Sirius sat on his bed with copy of Harry's letter in his hands, fixing his gaze on his name written in familiar scratch, feeling his vision blur. With tears slowly traveling down his face he thought that those people, those wonderful strangers found Harry just in time. Just in time before he lost all trust and turned harder and colder and fractured, just in time to patch him up and offer him all the things Sirius couldn't, but would never begrudge those who did. He wanted his boy back, but it was not something Harry needed. This dark grimy house, strangers at all hours, secrets, boredom, imprisonment and mounting frustration...it was like repeat from Sirius' childhood, only now there was no warm home to run to, no Euphemia Potter to go toe-to-toe with anybody who would as much as look at her second son sideways. Sirius needed twelve years in Azkaban to realize, that the only difference between him and Regulus, was one great friendship with wonderful family, and that difference claimed his brother's life, because Sirius was too young to see, reach out and save him in time.

Guilt was an old companion those days, but it only magnified the relief when Harry found his own sanctuary.

His only wish was to see him just once before he has to leave for Hogwarts... it would be enough.

He already found Ron, who was angrily washing an armoire with cool water filled with suds and pretended to believe excuse of 'effing dust' at the boy's puffy eyes. The spot of wood didn't shine this much probably since the day it was made. Hermione dragged out a book, hid her face and sniffed, curled up in library chair, turning pages sparingly as if anyone would believe she was reading. She did not notice a blanket spelled over her legs in a chilly shadowed room. Ginny was writing. Mouth set in straight line as she waved him off when he asked if she needed anything. He politely ignored her trembling chin, leaving a fresh cup of tea by her elbow accompanied with a chocolate frog. Twins were...still twins, but he had never seen them this subdued, sitting in the corner surrounded by parchments, staring quietly in the space with listless and unfocused eyes.

He knew that it wouldn't last, soon enough they will gather together, re-read letters, lean on each other. Harry's friends were made of sterner stuff and knew intimately the value of sticking together through thick and thin. In an hour or two they will be more like themselves, bearing the weight of Harry being away with far more strength and fortitude then the rest of them. They had faith in him.

Maybe it was a high time for to Order to start sharing that sentiment.

Truly, it's like they never learned. Harry would tell them one thing, a point that is glaringly obvious, and they would dismiss it as gospel. Would share his point of view and be waved off. Ask- and be patted on the head and send off on his way. Admit to fearing for his life? No, lets put him _again_ in the house with people who would love to see him dead. It looked like everyone and their uncle Jim might have opinion and be listened to - except for him. He had every right to drop them like a hot potato, every right to be angry and leave the world that thought nothing of climbing onto his shoulders, perched like a vulture, weighting him down and ripping off pieces as it liked, tossed him around, careless of where he lands. That he still tried to keep in contact with them was a miracle in itself. That he still wanted to come back...

Sirius loved magic, he might just admit to having problems with some of its users. Mainly meddling old coots with all the power but too much love for status quo, politicians and people who liked preaching that pure blood and noble birth were a mark of power, will, character or knowledge. Say that to Hermione, who at nearly sixteen had learned spells and concepts that took aback even scholary inclined Remus - a werewolf and a better person then even he realized. Harry with his Patronus, (Merlin, that Patronus) relentless determination to assure his friends safety and ever giving generous heart. Lily, a genius in her own right, a woman who stood for her ideas and fought for what she thought was right and never failed to give a fighting chance to all lost and broken creatures, an inclination her son shared if stories are to be believed.

Moodbloods and halbreeds, indeed. One would search the world, twice, and find few and far in between that could compare. He was undeservedly lucky to have met them.

Sirius put the letter with all the others, carefully kept and preserved, to read at times when the reality would get a bit too much to bear. The one at the top was the first that came after first of July, the day that Harry took for his escape, making him once again wonder why a fifteen year old would be interested whatever or not Peter liked flying or if he was capable of apparition. His godson was up to something and Sirius regretted deeply not being more able to help in whatever scheme he was planning. That rat comment...He hoped that Harry would prove less reckless then his godfather and not try for something he wasn't prepared to do.

It didn't matter, maybe, but Sirius had a whole stack of parchment listing every single thing he remembered of his once-friend. Just in case. Twelve years of forced solitude did strange things to person.

Speaking of friends, Remus was heading off to France. Probably will end up stuffing himself with croissants and washing them down with superb wine for a whole week, while pretending to be doing anything that Albus asked him to. Or maybe not. Maybe he will contact his mysterious 'associates' that seem to know things they should not, didn't wore any names to remember them by and were scattered all over the world like confetti. Whatever. Sirius wasn't jealous at all. Remus deserved to live a bit, especially after Snape went and exposed a secret kept for nearly thirty years to all who wanted to listen, leaving a confirmed werewolf at the dubious mercy of all the purist' bastards and misinformed British society.

Tonks kept going in and out, busy as a bee, training and searching for a squib that got lost along with a Crup. It was a sad state of things when people in Ministry were more worried about an uncooperative creature, then a human with little to none magic to speak off. It was sadder that the wife of said squib told about him only Tonks, and only three days after initial DRCMC* questioning, because she rightfully feared, that few if any Aurors would care about him being missing when they were given a shovel job.

Squibs were grey area that wizarding world didn't want to admit having. Fools, the lot of them. Squibs were absolutely the best at information gathering. Enough magic to walk among wizards, drink in bars, talk politics and sport, but not enough to make a wizard wand jumpy. After all, who would suspect poor, unfortunate magic _less_ person of anything at all? It was a devastating blow in the last war when Voldemort went after them. More out of principle then because he figured out how many Order members were less magically gifted, but not many of those people were alive still. Shame that, Order needed all the help it could get. And they could've use few people with some common sense, it would be easier to fallow if they were actually going somewhere. Ministry unwillingness to acknowledge Voldemort unwelcome resurrection gave them time, time they could use to prepare. But he couldn't help but think that the only thing they were doing was wasting it.

Moody was out. Again. Maybe doing what needed to be done. Maybe enjoying life. Maybe investigating what exactly caused two dementors to suck the souls of two helpless muggles in Merlin damned Little Whinging. Sirius didn't quite know where was he dashing off to. That man spend half a month in a hospital at the end of the year, showed up twice on Harry-sitting, was gone for Circe knows how long in the land unknown and just now he disappeared. Again. What was he doing? Moody retired years ago. He didn't have job. What he had, though, was more secrets then the bees.

He was going to figure them out. One after another. After all, he got nothing to do and all the time in the world...

* * *

The bag full of Harry's belongings lay precariously on the edge of the pillow as Ron, Hermione and Ginny sat around, staring at it for some time, like it contained a handful of scorpions and maybe an adder or two. None of them was truly convinced if they honestly should do what they wanted to do.

"Well, nothing to it." Grumbled finally Ron, waving morals goodbye, putting his hand inside and coming out with a book without a title, covered in faded yellowish paper. It looked worn and like it was put together only on scout honor, so with the mindset that anything that Harry found worth reading, he would also like, he opened it on random page. And then he blushed. And then bend down to read some more.

 _In sorted colours, praise a varied dress_

 _In night-clothes or commode let either please._

 _Or when she combs or when she curls her hair,_

 _Commend her curious art and gallant air._

 _Singing, her voice, dancing, her steps, admire_

 _Applaud when she desists, and still desire._

 _Let all her words and actions wonder raise_

 _View her with raptures, and with raptures praise_

 _Fierce as Medusa though your mistress prove,_

 _These arts will teach the stubborn beauty love._

 _Be cautious lest you overact your part,_

 _And temper your hypocrisy with art_

 _Let no false action give your words the lie,_

 _For once deceiv'd, she's ever after shy._

What are you reading?" Asked Hermione curiously, her hands wrapped around open book, but eyeing hungrily the one held on his lap, clutched desperately as his ears went red.

"Nothing!" He screamed high-pitchedely, hiding it behind his back, face burning as he tried to look her in the eye, thinking he should have took the title before diving in this wonderfully instructive lecture. And then he felt it, fragile cover slipped through his fingers while Ginny shouted in triumph 'gotcha!', before she skipped away, opening the book randomly and reading aloud with emphasis to his ever-lasting mortification.

 ** _"Neglect becomes a man-this Theseus found_**

 ** _Uncurl'd, uncomb'd, the nymphs his wishes crowned._**

 ** _The rough Hippolytus was Phaedra's care,_**

 ** _And Venus thought the rude Adonis fair._**

 ** _Be not too finical, but yet be clean,_**

 ** _And wear well fashioned clothes, like other men._**

 ** _Let not your teeth be yellow or be foul,_**

 ** _Nor in wide shoes your feet too loosely roll._**

 ** _Of a black muzzle and long beard beware,_**

 ** _And let a skilful barber cut your hair_**

 ** _Your nails be pick'd from dirt, and even par'd_**

 ** _Nor let your nasty nostrils bud with beard._**

 ** _Cure your unsav'ry breath; gargle your throat_**

 ** _And free your armpits from the ram and goat._**

 ** _Dress not, in short, too little or too much_**

 ** _And be not wholly French nor wholly Dutch."**_**

"What is this, oh Merlin, it's priceless. You should take notes." Ginny was all but rolling on the floor at the sight of Hermione's gaping mouth and Ron's closed eyes. He looked like he was considering the murder of his only sister and the only deterrent was that he was too embarrassed to stand right now. Which was even funnier since the book, ultimately, belonged to _Harry_.

"It's Ars Amatoria! The Art of Love. How in the world it got there?" Exclaimed Hermione, eyes wide with surprise as she mentioned Ginny over. Redhead rolled her eyes, but came closer, avoiding the side of bed where strangely calm Ron was doing a breathing exercise.

"It came from Harry's room in the bag full of Harry's things and has Harry's doodles all over it, so...maybe I'm jumping a wand here, but it looks like it just might belong to Harry?" Hermione barely noticed the oh-so-subtly implied sarcasm, brushing the aged paper with her fingertips. On the top corner of the page bloomed a drawing of peacock with something that looked like curly toupee and busty lady in a frock that ended well before her knees giving him a one finger salute. She turned a page only to see slanted careful cursive, spelling 'Bitch, that's not how you flirt' next to, quite frankly beautiful, picture of a naked back of a person of unspecified gender with one arm raised high above the head grasping invisible thread in their detailed slim fingers. The other hand, partially covered was keeping out the cascade of black locks away from exposed neck, each vertebrae visible, a swarm of freckles standing out from the shading of lightly muscled shoulders. "Maybe we should put it back. I feel like I just read someone's diary."

Hermione, just because her thirst for knowledge was a power just a tad stronger then her morals, turned a page, blushed and hastily throwing the book aside put a pillow on top of it.

"Now you've made me curious." Ron slid his hand closer, but had no time to get the book out, as his sister decided to take action. Mostly by promptly jumping on the bed, sitting her bony posterior on the pillow, and sticking her tongue earning herself two fingered jab to the side. It quickly turned into a bit of a battle consisting of mostly jabs with pointy elbows and hands plastered over faces. Hermione took the chance and put the reason of the commotion inside the mostly empty trunk, and then she smacked them both for a good measure with a hard cover 'Treasure Island'.

It took them a moment of snarking and veiled threats to settle down again, before Ginny went for the bag without as much as by your leave, taking out few things at once. Dream-catcher made of stones tightly put in place with copper wire, small handprint pressed in gypsum, colored purple and blue that Hermione took away and started wrapping tightly in old Daily Prophet pages. Magic was all well and fine but one can never be to careful.

In a slightly torn cardboard box sat a whole score of bits and ends. Few single earrings, broken gold chain, a score of different keys, old camea made of mother pearl, misshapen nail and horseshoe. Camera lances and few dozen buttons. Rings, some lacking eyelets. It was this box Ginny fished out something she did not expect to see, but fell in love with all the same.

"It's beautiful. Well, put it on." Hermione waved off any protest. It's not like it wouldn't end up packed among other fragile things at the top of the trunk. She never expected Harry to be such a magpie.

Immediately after Ginny slid the pink and orange shell bracelet on her wrist, the seem on her long shirt caught on it. Pulling on hard to break the thread, she didn't quite foresee that it would unravel nearly right to her elbow, leaving the sides flopping about. Cursing to herself, she stood up on her knees to call her mum...and fell right over with resounding thud as her legs tangled in the sheet.

"God, Ginny are you alright?" Hermione peered at her friend from over the edge of bed with worried eyes, helping untangle the stubborn trainer from the messed up bedding. Ron stole a peek over her shoulder, laughing and singing 'klutzy baboon' under his nose, earning himself an elbow smack in his side and mouth full of bushy hair for his trouble. When Ginny picked herself up a moment later, and with the back of one hand covering her bleeding nose mumbled 'I'll live, shut your piehole, Ron', she made exactly two steps toward the door, before the heavy ancient bookshelf that looked like it would survive an earthquake creaked, groaned and fell. Coincidentally enough right before the tips of her shoes, sending books on the floor, one striking the Firebolt hard enough it slid from its place whacking Hermione in the ear, and making the sound of an miniature armada canon. Taking a fearful step back, Ginny tripped over her mysteriously untied shoelaces, falling backwards, this time with loud and pained 'owww' as her jeans clad butt met the hard edge of the dropped stone dream-catcher.

"Or maybe not." She whispered, eyes wide and filled with pained tears, sitting and not daring to move an inch or breath any louder then necessary. "You think it's cursed?"

They didn't have time to answer, as Professor Lupin opened the door, called by the racket, Molly Weasley right at his heels. The adults looked at the deer in the torchlight look the teenagers spotted, fallen bookcase and bleeding Ginny, before Ron blurted out.

"It's the band!" Molly made her way to her only daughter, with a swift move of her wand sending a healing spell and another taking care of the blood gathered on her chin. Hermione walked to her other side, picked Ginny's arm and showing the pink shells tangled with red string and explained what happened. Remus send a spell, then another and after full minute shook his head, scratching his chin in thought.

"Ginny, take it off and pass it to Hermione, please." He was met with somewhat disbelieving gazes and Molly's scandalized look. Ron jumped off the bed.

"I will take it." Without waiting he broke the thread, earning himself a huff from Ginny and slid the bracelet off his sister's hand, holding it out for inspection. Nothing happened. Ron waved it around and was only met with tense silence. "So?" Lupin, shrugged with one arm and once again send a spell, shaking his head. "So, is it cursed?"

"To answer it simply...no." Remus took the bracelet from Ron's hand and to prove it made a few steps with absolutely no consequences. Ginny threw a betrayed glare at it, waving out her mostly naked forearm with piece of cloth flapping around her elbow, like she was trying to ask 'then what the hell?'." Are those Harry's things?"

"Yes, we wanted to repack his trunk, so the rest, "Hermione pointed at the half emptied bag laying overturned on the messy bed," would fit inside.

"Then I advise you to proceed with caution. This, " Remus put the bracelet on the bedside table, "must have been a gift. It's not a curse and will not hurt you,"he was met with skeptical looks so he amended,"badly, but sometimes taking someone's else gifts, given and meant with a certain person in mind, makes the taker extremely unlucky. It's a bit like anti-theft ward, but with no spell or set of runes. Just something close to wish magic.

"I wouldn't steal it!"

"I know this. But you liked it and it recognized your desire. It's not precise or omnipotent. It recognized you as 'not-Harry', so it acted to protect itself. That's why heirlooms are both so protected and revered. Things that were gifted and re-gifted over many years with this mindset become powerful on their own and therefore harder to steal, not to mention use them. But all the more expensive since even that 'unluck' can be broken. Someone must have wished Harry to have it and he in turn had to go on his way to keep it, for it to become this strong. Don't worry, just put down anything that causes you to become uneasy or like you shouldn't have it.

"Wouldn't it be better to supervise them? Who knows what else there might be in that bag. I will tell Bill, I'm sure he wouldn't mind checking it over for other surprises." Remus rolled his eyes at Molly's retreating back. He will have to remind her that he was the one who packed some of those things, was perfectly capable of doing that without a back-up of cursebreaker and if there was anything dark and sinister, Moody wouldn't let it cross the Grimmauld's door.

Gently.

They were all worried and high-strung without minor bad-luck trouble magnets. Even when they feel strange and awfully familiar. Wasn't it the same bracelet that Tonks zeroed on?

"The Order would be gathering soon, how is the work on Harry's notebook?"

"Great. If you want a recipe for breadsticks or theoretical one person dispute about whatever or not Arresto Momentum can stop a heart." Mumbled Hermione, who, more or less was done with about half of that accursed thing. She didn't quite knew why bother, since it was clear Harry was not in any place that he might have mentioned. She didn't share that thought, wiser people then her worked on the problem and there was simply no way that the idea didn't occur. "I never thought I would say it, but when I see Harry...I'll beat him to death with a wet newspaper. Four years and I didn't realize that he is the smartest idiot I know, the nerve of that boy!"

* * *

 _Dear people  
kids are riot. I mean I have some memories of when I could touch doorknob with my forehead, and let me tell you, what I remember was mostly Dudley throwing things, fists and temper tantrums. The louder they crashed, the harder they smashed and the more damage done the more fun was to be had. He liked to include me in his little games too, they usually ended with tears and broken furniture, but that, that was uninspired. Just a rampage. Whiney kid who still continue to be unable to live without his every possible need met and going in the most direct patch to attain it._

 _Kat is...creative. Chaotic. She is an angel with a devil's tail. Agent of mischief. General of under the belt moves. The kind of a child that adults inch away their kids from, because her smile might be wide but those eyes spell trouble._

 _I swear, if she didn't have her dad's looks I'd say that she is Fred and George incestuous love child created through illegal but curiously innovative means. (It's not an invitation to try, troublemakers, however entertaining it might be). She can't even write yet, but we already have problems keeping up with her. (We are of two minds of whatever or not we should be pleased if she turns out a witch.) Mrs. Weasley, you are my hero. How can anybody survive the maelstrom of seven children? Not to mention equipped with magic? Bless._

 _We take turns watching her, but she still managed to call 112 that she lost TV remote and she is missing new episode of My Little Pony. For three days she screamed bloody murder and run around only in socks because 'clothes are rules of animals', only to ask us why polar bears don't wear sweaters. By some convoluted logic known only to toddlers, moments later she at least decided to have some pants on. Pink. With stripes. Those were the only one good enough, because when we weren't looking she somehow smuggled whole jar of honey, (where did she hid it?!) rolled in it (why?) and it got_ places _(bugs were the only ones happy about it). You ever tried to bath a child? It's like holding an electric eel and there is no hope of remaining dry. (On the other hand, you ever tried to bath a Kneazle? Kat tried to baptize Belle in the toilet because she 'looked hot' and you try to get any cat wet when they are not in the mood... looked like I fell in the rosebush. Exceedingly hairy rosebush with teeth and grudge. I'd take dragon every day.)_

 _The only thing that stays dry is her wit when she asks if her uncle lives in Australia, because that's where the grumpy people come from and in the next breath 'Joke is over, where is my biscuit? Nu-uh Mrs, you are fired.' If you didn't quite got it yet-she is smart. Maybe too smart for us. She is already planning to be a princess and I won't be surprised if she nabs one of the little heirs, canny as she is._

 _On the other hand - she farted on the open bag of marshmallows and calls spaghetti maggots...so maybe not exactly 'Lady' material. I cooked and some sauce fell on her foot when she was stuffing her face. I could see that scheming look so I told her not to eat it aaand what she does? She raises her leg, looks me in the eye and licks it, makes the funniest face and screams 'I regret everything'. Afterwards she told Hamish that I was trying to poison her 'maggots' in the 'unnice way'. I live in a home where poisoning is a dinner topic. (Who knew that potatoes could kill?) I feel I'm going to ace Herbology this year with all my extra reading. I don't know yet how Latin names of bones, ritualistic scarification, beer fermentation and how much blood can you loose and live will translate to my O.W.L.s exams, but I'm curious if you can make beer lollies and if I can come down in history as a public menace that invented them. (About blood, it's about two liters, if you want to know. Sadly, can't say how it works with aid of potions instead of transfusion or if magic replaces blood any faster then on muggle. I don't suppose St Mungo has any precise data that doesn't say 'because magic'?)_

 _We often go for walks to pick up bits of nature to drag home, so we could find some more interesting pieces festering, stuck in refrigerator or under kitchen sink and to feed ducks with overpriced full grain bread. One day that little gremlin squints, looks at the trees and with ominous voice says 'they, they are not like us'.( I will never look at the trees the same way. Or maybe she meant something living_ in _the tree? Either way... that was creepy. I think she woke something. Mrs made her crocheted red string charm, hope it will survive for some 's surprisingly hard to find iron jewelry.) Ten minutes later she met with her friend and went from 'lets run around screaming at the top of our lungs with no apparent purpose, making people regret they were born with ears' to 'you peasant, my Unkie Hari will buy me unicorn'. Do you have any unicorns? Where can I get one? I panicked. I might have promised one. I am scared. She woke me up at three am by smelling my armpit and asked 'did you heard of Satan?' and promptly fell asleep on my stomach, like she didn't just scare the bejeezus out of me. Why she needs me to get rid of the monsters under the bed when she could make friends with them? She is menace to society. I adore her._

 _Hamish was napping and that little rascal plucked a handful of his hair running straight to Will proclaiming they can watch Daddy's deydey (DNA) on myhop (microscope- I attached a picture so you won't have to run yourself in circles explaining, Hermione) and when Hamish asked her what she had to say for herself she told him 'you are still pretty potato, daddy'. In the same scientific manner we had a minor fire because she put tea bags in the toaster. For science. Apparently it was vital to see if bread is the only thing that could be made into toast...I think fires are rather common here as Hamish' only reaction was put upon sigh and sinking our poor toaster in sink by slapping it with a broomstick without leaving his seat and Will just opened windows and shoot the wailing fire detector grumbling about lack of blueberry jam. It explains the lack of reaction when Will and I kinda blew a microwave and that time Hamish blended whole jar of pickled fingertips, supposedly by accident.  
As if._

 _This Monday whole carton of eggs met its end when Kit was looking with increasing frustration for a duckie. I feel her disappointment, but I think we should stop explaining things halfway, what with her being baby genius and us...not so much._

 _We tried to explain to her that she was a girl and we were boys (I can't remember why it was relevant. I regret everything, too). She cried. Then screamed that she was a fucking nuts and she wanted a fucking hot dog.(I don't think she meant hot dog.) Then she promptly told us to piss off and bit Will. Earning herself a corner time and no biscuits, and don't you go 'poor baby' in her, she tried to con Mrs into giving her one less then minute after._

 _Perhaps I should explain one thing-it's hard to punish a kid for cursing when their parents are not precisely Victorian gentlemen. Hamish is not proficient at the not swearing business. He has a swear jar- it's impressive how much can one person put aside. We know that he sometimes just puts a coin or few quids in so he can go and say filthy things. Will has a rude jar. And since he is rude, he does empty it when he needs change. -I think he will get away with it till Kat learns how to count, because Hamish gave up, but she won't. - I'm just here for a laugh. I don't have a jar, as I was told that being too nice to idiots, as annoying character trait as it is, is not a ground to punish anyone. Go figure. Instead, I had to do the dishes after dinner for three days in a row for saying 'fuckitty fuck'. Why, you might ask, when the non-swearing policy is do lax? Kat was in the room and heard it. Then introduced herself like that for a week. She might have stopped sooner, but we couldn't handle her stretching her little hand like a proper posh little lady and then spit this blasphemy 'Fuckitty Fuck, how are you?' at random people. I have a feeling that it might not be the end of the issue. Kids are so crafty? And bit-y? And messy? I'm not going to reproduce. I've changed my mind on three kids and a dog. Can't imagine dealing with a child that would end up with about half of my genes, because, dear gods, I thought outflying dragon was a sensible thing to do. It's a miracle I'm still here to annoy people instead of sniffing flowers from below._

 _Kat likes drawing, (I wonder if the wallpaper will survive untouched? I have a twenty going on 'no',) so Will bought her coloring book with famous scientists. I wouldn't expect anything less from a man who teaches her organic chemistry, buy she took a look at Einstein and cried. And then she drew 'bucket of tears' (I added my own reproduction of this delightful art. See that purple line? So expressive) and said he needed it. I won't argue with that logic, he needs all the help he can get. I absolutely should not laugh at the fact that she started to call him Unkie Pwaffy - apparently I have been demoted from the spot of having most fluffy hair. Pitty. I liked the skull hairpins._

 _Random amusing fact- Will can't say penguin._

 _No, I am not joking, it's the saddest thing in the universe to watch him struggle. So to help him with his problem I acquired "And Tango Makes Three". Kat loves it. Me and Hamish just sit in a careful distance and film this tragedy of little babe teaching her dad how to pronounce 'penguin' each time he tries to say it. Listen, it's a story ABOUT penguins. It has lots of 'penguins'. Gay penguins even, penguins that have a baby daughter (Tango) penguin together. All the penguins. It's one of those forbidden books that many parents in the world wouldn't let their children read in fear that they discover gay and get dragged into caring about people who aren't sticking to the 'traditional family values'. Oh, the horror. I have a copy, Hermione, but I warn you, its tooth rotting fluff. (Oh, can you grab this year Defense book for me? Have the rest, done my homework, but don't have a list. Much obliged.) I hear re-read of it at least once a day and it didn't stop being funny._

 _Will hates us._

 _He hates us enough that he bought his partner whole package of red...something, ( I don't want to know why Hamish had to go out for three hour walk and came back blushing so hard you would think he spend whole day sunbathing without spells or filters, but I just know it's a form of evening the score. I prefer to remain ignorant, such a blessed state to be. And find a willing soul to give me shelter for an evening,) and told me that I will not be in their team in the next paint-ball battle._

 _Am I scared? Oh yeah, going against them would be harder then getting rid of glitter. If you ask, what are two middle aged dads to one teenager who invites trouble home like it's an old friend? Big fishes in the pond, because, well...so do they._

 _It's going to be brilliant._

 _Exited but terrified,_

 _Unkie Hari_

* * *

 _Dear friends,_

 _I need to bleach my eyes. Lesson I have never needed or wanted to learn - if you hear two bears fighting for salmon...let them._

 _With love,_

 _Boy-who-saw-too-much_

 _PS. I was right, it was brilliant._

 _PPS. Not that. Not the... I mean, no I don't want to...The other thing,_

 _someone stop me now_

 _We are never talking about it. Ever._

The sound of laughter made one black cat raise its head, yellow eyes lazily focusing on something flickering between the leaves. It sit up to lick the white patch on its chest and curling its tail in a graceful question mark jumped from the tall ash tree, chased by a low growling hiss of an orange half-kneazle as it vanished in thin air.


End file.
